The Night of the Old Flame
by The Wild Wild Whovian
Summary: An assignment for Jim and Artie to protect the life and work of a brilliant scientist gets complicated when a member of the scientist's household turns out to be an old flame of Artie's – and she is showing ardent interest in rekindling the relationship. Or is there more to it than that?
1. Teaser

_Author's note: The flashbacks are to deleted scenes I cooked up for TNOT Two-Legged Buffalo to explain why Artie went from freezing in his hotel suite to being quite happy and apparently warm in his very next scene._

**Teaser  
**

"I assure you, Mr West, this is hardly necessary!" The tall distinguished gentleman smiled at the two federal agents. "I'm sure the accident was merely that: an accident. To assume from such a, a _trivial _event that someone has designs upon my life…!" He chuckled affably and shook his head.

"The research you've been doing for the government is hardly trivial, Prof Bergman," said James West. "My partner Mr Gordon and I have seen men killed for far less."

"But it's simply absurd!" the professor insisted.

"This is a brand new field of scientific study, Professor," said the other agent. "A fascinating field, germ theory! So much to learn, so much to discover! I wouldn't be surprised a bit if professional jealousies might lead a man to…"

"What, to murder? Over professional jealousies? Really, Mr Gordon! I cannot believe that my colleagues would suffer from such, such _petty _failings. Oh no no no no…"

"Your colleagues, Prof Bergman, are every bit as human as you or I, and susceptible to every failing in the book, petty or otherwise," said Artemus Gordon.

"You came close to being killed when the blackboard fell from the wall during your lecture," put in West. "If you'd been standing in front of it instead of off to the side, it would have crushed you."

"And some of your students," Gordon added, "reported seeing tiny puffs of smoke come up all around the perimeter of the board just before it fell."

"Puffs of smoke!" The professor scoffed.

"Explosives, Professor," said West.

"Yes," said Gordon. "I examined the ruined supports myself. It wasn't structural failure. All the supports were blown up by miniscule charges, all at the same time."

The professor stared at him in amazement. "How can you discern that?"

Gordon gave a lop-sized grin. "By gathering some matching supports and blowing them up for myself. The type of damage matches precisely."

A look of consternation spread over Bergman's face. "I… I can't believe that. You're… you're saying that this indeed was _not _an accident?" He leaned a hand on a nearby chair, then collapsed into the chair heavily. "But… but that's unthinkable! Someone wants me dead?"

"That's why we're here, Professor," said West. "Your research is very valuable to the government, as is the paper you're to present next month at the scientific conference in Washington City delineating your every step in making your discoveries. And we'll be with you from this moment onward until the end of the conference to see to it that you get to continue your work."

"Not to mention, your life," added Gordon.

"But… what do you expect to be able to do, gentlemen?" Bergman asked. "If someone is determined to kill me…"

"One or both of us will be guarding you whenever you set foot out of your house. We will also be investigating to find out who set the charges on the blackboard."

A soft knock on the office door interrupted them. "Yes?" called the professor impatiently.

The door now cracked open and a stoop-shouldered, inoffensive young man entered. _"Pardonnez-moi, m'sieur le professeur…" _he murmured.

"Yes, yes, what is it, Levesque?"

"_Pardonnez-moi, _but the time, she is very late, _n'est-ce pas? _Will not _Madame_ Bergman be anxious?"

Bergman consulted his pocket watch and barely suppressed an oath. "Six forty-five!" he exclaimed. "And Mother insists on dining precisely at seven. Well, gentlemen," and as he slipped the watch back into his vest pocket with one hand, he reached out to shake hands with James West with the other, "I'm pleased to have made your acquaintance and thank you for your interest. Good day then."

West ignored the proffered hand. "You don't understand, Professor. We're not leaving."

Bergman frowned. "Excuse me?"

Gordon nodded. "Yes sir, the president was quite clear. Either my partner or I is to be with you at all times. 'Glued to his side' were his precise words."

"Glued! Why, I protest!"

"Protest all you want," said West, "but we have our orders and we're carrying them out."

"Yes, I'm sure you have some inkling of the president's reputation for tenacity…"

"Vicksburg. Petersburg..."

"Mm-hmm. The president is very good at burgs, Prof Bergman."

Mr Gordon's grin at his latest pronouncement was met with a scowl from the professor, who then pulled out his pocket watch again and snorted. "I haven't time to debate this. First thing in the morning, you may be sure, I shall lodge an official complaint with the president over your – and by extension, his – _insupportable _treatment of me!"

"Yes sir," said West equably. "And in the meantime, wherever you go, we go."

"Rather like Ruth with Naomi," said Gordon.

This drew an even larger snort from the professor. "Levesque!" he growled.

"_Oui, m'sieur le professeur?"_

"We're going! Lock up!"

"_Immédiatement," _the little Frenchman replied, bobbing his head.

Bergman strode out from the office, shucking off his white lab coat to leave it on the coat stand at the outer door of the lab. He pulled on his overcoat, snatched up his hat, and left, West keeping strictly at his side.

Gordon lagged behind, watching as Levesque scurried about, turning off the gas lamps and several burners. "Do you want all the burners off?" he asked cordially in perfect French.

Levesque turned, a smile brightening his face. _"Parlez-vous français, m'sieur?"_

"_Oui, oui."_

"_Ah, parfait!" _And the two shared a spirited conversation as, at the Frenchman's directions, Gordon turned off certain burners and left others alone. Once the lab was squared away, Levesque too exchanged his lab coat for street attire and finished locking up.

…

West and Gordon on horseback followed the carriage in which Prof Bergman and _M'sieur_ Levesque rode. And as they traveled toward the professor's house, taking one turn after another, it soon became clear that a carriage some distance behind them was matching them turn for turn.

The two agents exchanged glances, then nodded. At the next crossroad, West turned off while Gordon continued on following the professor.

West rode a short way down the crossing street, then turned and waited. It wasn't long before the other carriage passed by, affording West a brief glimpse of two women riding within it. And as it went on, still traveling exactly the same route as the professor's carriage, the second conveyance was soon, whether wittingly or not, being escorted by a lone rider as well.

It was, in a sense, a parade, albeit a small one and with a rather large gap between one section and the other. Every so often Gordon contrived to look back unobtrusively. Sometimes there were other travelers filling that gap and other times no one at all between the two carriages but he and his horse, but it was unmistakable that the second half of the parade was certainly following the first half. Gordon wondered who the others were and what they wanted.

And Jim, just behind that second carriage, looked at the wheeled contraption strapped to the boot of the conveyance and wondered the same as his partner.

At length the professor's carriage turned in through a gate and drove up to a beautiful two-storied Georgian house standing amidst well-tended gardens. As the carriage drew up at the door, even before its wheels had completely ceased to turn, Prof Bergman sprang forth and strode toward the house, calling out, "Mother! I'm home now. I do regret keeping you waiting! Mother?"

A liveried butler materialized and took the professor's overcoat and hat. "Good evening, sir," he intoned. "Madame is not home at present."

"She… What? But where is she, Weldon? We always dine at seven!"

"She and Miss Mallory went out shopping this afternoon, sir. A matter of an incomplete trousseau, I was given to understand."

"Trou… Ah! Well!" For a moment, or so Gordon thought, Bergman's face bore a ferocious scowl. But then the second carriage, with West in attendance, drove in and stopped just behind the first.

Abruptly Bergman's face was wreathed in smiles. "Mother!"

The driver of the second carriage leapt down from his seat and hurried around to the back where he swiftly unstrapped an arrangement of wheels and wickerwork from upon the boot. He then pushed that chair on wheels to the side of the carriage closest to the house. Opening the carriage door, he reached in and lifted out a dour elderly woman, transferring her with silent efficiency from the carriage to the chair.

Bergman stepped close to the chair and leaned over the woman. "Good evening, Mother," he said jovially and aimed a kiss at her cheek.

For a woman immobilized in a wheel chair, Mrs Bergman showed an impressive ability to dodge, for the kiss did not land.

"I've got the purchases, Mrs Bergman!" called the voice of a woman from the other side of the carriage. This voice was young and sprightly, lively and energetic. And shortly the owner of that voice emerged from around the back of the carriage, her arms so burdened with packages that only her brown dress and a matching hat perched atop strawberry-blonde hair was visible.

"Let me get those for you," said Gordon, going to help her. He slipped his hands under the stack and relieved her of the entire burden.

And only a moment later, seeing her fetching, winsome young face, he nearly dropped everything.

"Shasta?" said Artemus incredulously.

The young woman's face lit up in a magnificent smile. "Artie!"


	2. Act One, Part One

**Act One, Part One**

From the goofy grin on Artie's face as he gazed at the pretty strawberry blonde, Jim was beginning to think he would need to wave a hand between the pair to snap his partner out of his trance. That proved not to be necessary, however. For Prof Bergman, with a monumental glare, folded his arms and growled out, "I see, Mr Gordon, that you have met my fiancée before!"

That did it. At the word "fiancée," Artie started and came close to dropping the stack of packages once more. Both the women reacted strongly as well, the older with a look of anger, the younger with one of horror. And Bergman, with now a smile of satisfaction at the responses he'd elicited, undertook to make introductions.

"Mr West, Mr Gordon, Margaret Bergman, my mother. Mother, these two gentlemen are federal agents sent by the president himself to assure my safety from the conspiratorial machinations of evil marauding blackboards."

Mrs Bergman regarded the two newcomers silently, then glanced at the young blonde and nodded toward the house.

"Oh, yes ma'am," exclaimed the girl. With a quick "Excuse me," she hurried to the woman's chair and pushed her inside.

"As for Miss Mallory," Bergman added once the women had disappeared from view, "I take it there was no need to introduce her formally." He cast a frosty look Mr Gordon's way, then entered the house himself.

The butler came and relieved Mr Gordon of his burdens. "Good evening, gentlemen," he said in tones of dismissal.

"We're staying," said West.

The butler shot him a puzzled frown.

"Presidential orders, ah, Weldon, is it?" added Gordon. "We're the professor's special guests."

The butler's frown deepened. Turning to Levesque, who was in a world of his own, scribbling happily away in a notepad, Weldon asked what he knew of this business. It took, in fact, several seconds for the young Frenchman to notice he was being dragged into a conversation, but eventually he answered the butler's questions sufficiently for Weldon to nod. "Very well then. I beg your pardons, gentlemen. I will have a room readied for you. Dinner will be served at sev… Well, a bit late tonight. Say in fifteen minutes. I shall have someone see to your horses."

"Thank you," said both agents. The two of them retrieved their saddlebags and followed Levesque and the butler inside.

…

The Bergman house was beautiful inside and out, lavishly appointed. The two agents made note of some fine paintings and other artwork as they were led upstairs to "One of the smaller bedrooms, I'm afraid," Weldon informed them as he ushered them inside, "but this one is readily available."

Smaller bedroom! It was easily bigger than the entire baggage car of the train on which the two agents lived. West and Gordon thanked their escort, then set about unpacking their saddlebags and getting ready for the promised repast.

When Jim and Artemus emerged from their assigned room a few minutes later, they found young Levesque sitting in a wing chair in the corridor just outside their doorway, his attention on the notebook and pencil in his hands.

"_Bon soir, m'sieur_," said Artie politely.

The Frenchman, absorbed with what he was writing, did not reply.

"_M'sieur_ Levesque," said Jim, "did you want to see us?"

Still no answer.

The two agents glanced at each other. With a twinkle in his eye, Artie bobbed his eyebrows at Jim, then pointed dramatically at the floor and cried out, "Look! An amoeba!"

"_Hein? Qu'est-ce que c'est? _What is that?" The young scientist at last tore himself loose from his writings to look about, only to scowl a moment later. "_Tiens! _One cannot see an amoeba with the naked eye!"

"My apologies, _m'sieur_. I was mistaken."

"Were you waiting here to speak with us?" Jim prompted once more.

"Was I… ah… Oh! _Mais oui, j'ai oublié! _I was forgetting! I am here to escort our guests to the dining room, as you will not otherwise know your way." He stood and bowed, tucking the notebook and pencil into his pocket, and led the way downstairs.

Like every other part of the house the agents had yet seen, the dining room was gorgeous. No less than four bay windows looked out over the gardens. The lower third of the walls were paneled in mahogany, with red-flocked wallpaper stretching the rest of the way upwards from the chair rail to the ceiling. An enormous crystal chandelier hung over the table; a rich red Persian carpet was spread under it.

Prof Bergman was sitting at one end of the table, Mrs Bergman at the other. As the young scientist scooted on into the room to claim the empty seat between the professor and Miss Mallory, Artie leaned close to Jim and whispered, "Now, which Bergman's seat is considered the head of the table and which the foot, I wonder?"

Levesque promptly brought out his writing materials and began scribbling once more. The two agents moved around to the other side of the table where Jim took the seat nearer to the professor and Artie seated himself by Mrs Bergman's side. "Good evening," he said to the aged woman, who only fixed him with a baleful glare in return. Shasta, by contrast, smiled brightly at him. "Oh, how lovely, Artie! We're sitting opposite each other; we'll be able to catch up on old times."

With a glance at their host, Artie responded, "Ah, well… You know, Miss Mallory, considering that the pair of us only knew each other for less than a full day in our prior acquaintance, we really couldn't exactly call what we had old times, could we?" He smiled at her, hoping she'd take the hint and stop being so effusive towards him in front of her fiancé.

And then Artie reached for his glass of water and took a sip.

And choked.

Every eye with the exception of Levesque's and Shasta's turned to look at him. Hastily Artie set down his glass and snatched up his napkin instead to cover his coughing fit, managing to send a fork clattering to the floor in the process. As Artie continued to cough, Jim leaned down to retrieve the fork.

And now he saw what had caused his partner to nearly do that spit take. The lovely Miss Mallory had stretched out a foot and was using it to caress one of Artie's. As soon as he was sure Jim had seen, Artie drew the foot back out of reach, earning himself a pout from the pert young blonde.

Jim caught Artie's eye and raised an eyebrow. Artie, no longer coughing at last, responded by flicking his nose with a finger. What was the girl up to? the men wondered. And what on earth might she come up with to do or say next?

Just what was going on here, and what was Shasta Mallory's part in it?


	3. Act One, Part Two

**Act One, Part Two**

Before Shasta could do or say anything further, Weldon the butler appeared with dinner, giving Jim the hope that he and Artie would be spared any further shenanigans from the pretty young strawberry blonde.

For a while, at least.

Weldon rolled out a beautifully carved cart on which were numerous covered platters and began transferring the platters to the table and serving the dishes. As he was busily occupied with this task, a second man in the attire of a chef swept into the room bearing a single covered dish. This he placed before Mrs Bergman, made an elegant bow, then removed the cover with a flourish.

Curiously, the dinner Mrs Bergman was served was entirely different from the meal Weldon was serving to the rest. Theirs was boeuf bourguignon with artichokes, baby carrots glacé, and a tossed salad, while hers was a filet mignon with succotash. Ignoring the others and the fact that not all of them had yet been served, Mrs Bergman took up her knife and fork and began struggling to cut her meat.

"Allow me, ma'am," said Artie, reaching for her utensils to perform the task for her. Much to his astonishment, the woman hissed at him. Yes, actually hissed! Not words, but sound only! And before Artie's could recover from that surprise, Mrs Bergman smacked the back of his hand with the flat of her knife.

"Oops, you shouldn't have done that," said Shasta, digging into her salad.

Still rubbing his hand, Artie muttered, "Well, what was that for?"

"Oh, Mrs Bergman never lets anyone touch her food, not even me. If anyone other than Bradley – that's the fellow who brought her plate out; he's her own private chef; all he does is fix her food, no one else's – why, if anyone else even comes _close _to her food," and Shasta gave a shrug, "she'll refuse to eat it. That's just how it is."

"Not even you?" Jim inquired.

"Mm-hmm. I'm Mrs Bergman's paid companion, you see. I do everything for her – except, obviously, cut her food." She smiled amiably at Mr West, then let her gaze drift off to his side, apparently to aim a sharp look at the professor.

"Thank you, Weldon," Bergman said, dismissing the butler. He shot a dark look back at his fiancée, glanced at his mother who was now shoveling her food into her mouth as fast as possible, glowered at the pair of unwanted guests, then turned to Levesque and snapped, "Marcel! We are eating now!"

"_Hein?" _The young fellow looked up from his notes, started, then scribbled a few more words before putting his writing materials away to partake of the meal.

Scowling, Bergman spent the next ten minutes quizzing Levesque mercilessly on the progress of the various experiments they had in progress at the lab. It was obvious that the professor was focusing on his assistant so as to avoid speaking with anyone else.

Noting a glassy look in Artie's eye, West murmured, "Something wrong?"

"Not, ah… not exactly…" Gordon responded.

Jim put two and two together. "She's doing it again?"

"Mm-hmm!"

"And you're letting her?"

Gordon made a small noise, almost a laugh, not quite loud enough for any but his partner to hear. "Wouldn't you?"

Ah. "_Touché_."

The professor chose that moment to leave off haranguing poor Levesque to look around the table. Leveling a glower at Gordon, Bergman growled, "What's your problem?"

Artie pasted on a smile and replied, "Oh, nothing! Nothing at all!" He raised his wine glass with a salute of "_Prosit_."

"Hmph." Bergman's gaze now fell on his mother. "Does she have to eat like a starving field hand? I swear, Bradley might as well serve her food in a pig's trough! It's disgusting! I should…"

Shasta chose that moment to interject brightly, "It's so wonderful to see you again, Artie! Oh, and I wanted to say how very nice you look with your clothes on."

Artie choked yet again. Bergman glowered, and even Levesque who had returned to his notebook and the invalid in the wheel chair gobbling her food both paused in their favored pursuits to stare at the nonplused agent.

"Oh, ah…" Feeling his face going very red, Artie endeavored to explain. "Ah… well, you see, we, uh, we met at, at, at a costume party! Sort of. I was dressed as a Polynesian prince that night. You know, sarong, feathered cape…"

Shasta snickered. "_Un_dressed as the prince, you mean!"

Frowning frostily, the professor inquired, "And what were _you _dressed as, Shasta my dear?"

As if in the same breath, both Shasta and Artie replied, "A maid."

Bergman's frown deepened into a scowl. "A maid?"

"Oh yes," Jim put in, a small smile of reminiscence upon his handsome face. "She did quite well as a maid. Very charming. Very believable." He inclined his head in a slight bow in the girl's direction.

Shasta grinned in reply. "Well, I should certainly hope so!" she chuckled.

Bergman turned his frown toward Jim. "And you were there as well, were you? What was your costume, some sort of swashbuckler with a plumed hat and glittering épée?"

In rapid succession, three answers met his question. Shasta said, "Oh no, nothing like that! He was just, er, Roger something, wasn't it?" At the same moment Artie, a regal accent tingeing his tones, responded with, "Ah, but of course he was none other than my right-hand man!" even as Jim was saying, "I was His Majesty's factotum," adding a moment later, "Yes, Miss Mallory, Roger Colby was the name I was using. You have a good memory."

She dimpled delightfully. "Thank you, Mr West. Oh, but whatever became of that other fellow? You know, the one you told me was the real pr…"

"Oh," Artie interrupted hastily, "we wound up sending him home."

"Sent him home! But wasn't he wearing a pair of handcu…!"

This time Jim interrupted with a resolute, "Yes. He went home, Miss Mallory. And that was the end of it."

"Oh," she said in a tiny, subdued voice. "Well… If you say so."

"I say so," Jim assured her. After all, neither he nor his partner had any wish to rehash that old diplomatic headache here in front of a group of people who had absolutely no pressing need to know. "Now, about your security, Prof Bergman." Turning to their host, Jim firmly changed the subject. "Mr Gordon and I will want to go over the house inside and out before bedtime."

Bergman's brows knit. "You will? Whatever for?"

"Oh, to check for any weak points our chalkboard bomber might try to exploit," Artie replied airily. "Things like unlocked windows…"

"The mail box on your front porch," Jim added.

"Or any doors that don't close properly."

"Not to mention, to check for any booby traps which might have already been set in place."

"Yes, just waiting for an unwary hand or foot to set them off!" said Artie.

"Hmph!" the professor scoffed. "Tell me, sirs, are all federal men so exceedingly melodramatic?"

"Only the magnificent ones," Artie responded with a twinkle in his eye.

"Oh, indeed?" retorted Bergman, not in the least charmed. "Well, as the president desires my cooperation in this matter, I shall direct Weldon here to take you all through the house and grounds once dinner is over and… Oh, what is it _now!"_

For a clatter at the far end of the table drew the attention of all – all, that is, save for the oblivious Marcel Levesque, who was raptly scribbling in his notebook once more. At the other end of the table, Mrs Bergman looked up from dropping her silverware noisily across her plate. She then turned to Shasta and mumbled something at length, something that sounded like nothing more than rank gibberish even to the two agents' trained ears.

Shasta leaned close, listening intently. "Yes ma'am," she said at last. "Mrs Bergman says she's had quite enough for one night and would like me to see her to her room now. Good night, gentlemen."

The girl rose from her chair, and instantly all the men – again, save for Levesque – did the same. Taking hold of the old woman's wheeled chair, Shasta rolled it and its occupant from the room, the butler discreetly holding the door for her, then closing it behind the women.

The men resumed their seats. "Mother always retires early," the professor commented, glancing at his pocket watch, "and I should like to do some reading." He snapped the watch shut again, then scowled at the Frenchman hunched over the little notebook. "Levesque!"

"Hmm? _Hein?" _Levesque with difficulty extracted himself from his ever-present notes. "What is it that it is, _m'sieur le professeur?"_

Bergman loomed closer. "Dinner is over, Levesque! And yours has been barely touched. Stop that infernal scribbling and go up to bed!"

Levesque blinked. "Oh. Ah. _Oui, m'sieur_. At once." He tucked the pencil inside the notebook and slipped both into a pocket as he came to his feet. "_Bonne nuit, messieurs_. My, ah, my compliments as usual to the chef for a fine repast." He ambled from the room, his hand already sneaking into the pocket where his notebook reposed.

"A better compliment would be _if you actually ate the meal_," Bergman grumbled under his breath. He then turned to the butler and, with a nod toward the agents, said curtly, "Weldon, see to them." And with that cheery farewell, the professor stalked out.

"Of course, sir," said Weldon to the well-slammed door. Gesturing then toward a different door, he added, "Gentlemen, shall we start with the kitchen?"

…

"Well," said Artie some time later, "that's about as secure as we can make this place for tonight. Thank you very much, Weldon."

The butler nodded and disappeared noiselessly down the hall, leaving the two agents outside the door of the professor's own suite upstairs.

"Not quite," said Jim, and he knocked upon the door.

"Ah, true," murmured Artie. They had been over the whole house – upstairs, downstairs, cellar, stable, and grounds – and had checked everything from the laboratory on the ground floor to milady's boudoir – enduring the glowering regard of Mrs Bergman all _that_ while, to be sure! – but they had not yet inspected Professor Bergman's personal rooms.

"Who's there?" called an irritated voice from within.

"Prof Bergman, we're ready to secure your room as well now," Jim replied.

"Secure!" The door flew open, revealing the professor's furious mien. "Secure my own…! Let me assure you, it is bad enough that I must… _quarter _the pair of you here in my own house, but you shall never – never! – enter these my chambers!" And with that he slammed the door closed and a moment later locked it. Loudly.

"You know, I believe he means it, James my boy," said Artie lightly.

"And _that's _as secure as we can make the house tonight," said Jim. He took up his station just outside the door. "I'll take first watch. Relieve me at…" He consulted his watch. "…two in the morning."

"All right. See you then." Artie headed off down the hall and around the corner toward the room he and Jim had been assigned, intending to get a bit of shuteye before it was his turn to stand guard over the professor. He entered the room whistling softly, shucking off his jacket, loosening his tie.

A moment later he discovered he was not alone. For as a happy cry of "Artie!" hit his ears, a pair of arms enfolded him in an enthusiastic embrace, followed by the sensation of a pair of lips pressing themselves to his.

"Shast… _mrph!"_

**End of Act One**


	4. Act Two, Part One

**Act Two, Part One**

Artie remembered vividly how he had first met Shasta, as if it were yesterday…

"_Blue! That's the color: blue! I'll die of pneumonia!" Artie pulled the Crown Prince of the Coral Island's feathered cloak closer around himself, as if that helped. How did birds ever stay warm dressed only in feathers? At least he had a sarong as well — yeah, like __**that **__was any improvement! He rued once more how his big mouth had gotten him into this predicament; he himself had volunteered to imitate the missing prince here at this expensive spa in order to prevent an international incident. Now here he was in the mountains wearing feathers and a sarong — the only clothing the much-smaller prince had had that would fit on Artemus — and he was doing his level best to prevent a frostbite incident._

_Jim was taking the whole thing all too lightly in Artie's opinion, cracking wise as usual. Then Jim passed him a six-shooter and went off to_ _investigate, asking, "You want your pants back, don't you?"_

_Artie, grumbling and muttering to himself, turned from the door to survey the prince's sumptuous Suite A. Ugh! Whose bright idea had it been to redecorate the suite in Pseudo-Polynesian Ugly? The tiki in the corner with its sharp-pointed tongue was particularly hideous. Artie continued his visual inspection of the room, taking in the various palm-frond fans and wooden wall-hangings, unusual fruits and exotic flowers…_

_Fireplace! "Now that's more like it!" he said happily as he crossed to the opulent marble structure and opened its grillwork door._

_Oh. His shoulders sagged and the feathered cloak nearly fell off. The fireplace had no firewood inside. How brilliant. He pulled the cloak back into place and looked around hopefully. Nope, not a log, not a stick, not even a toothpick. Terrific. He glanced at the huge Polynesian headdress he'd worn to make his grand entrance to the spa and wondered if it would burn._

_A knock came at the door. Ah, was that one of the people involved in the plot against the prince? "Show time," Artemus told himself as he straightened the cloak again and put the headdress on once more. Hiding the revolver behind his back, he drew himself up tall, sucked in his gut, switched his voice to Aristocratic Royale, and said, "Enter!"_

_The door opened and in stepped a maid toting a large basket. "Good evening, sir," she said briskly. "I've come to…" Her voice trailed off as she took in the apparition before her. "Where are your clothes?" she blurted._

"_You are in the presence of the Crown Prince of the Coral Island," said Artie stiffly. "You will address me as 'Your Highness.' "_

_The girl had the temerity to snicker. "You're kidding me," she said. "Who put you up to this? Chloe? Fern?" She looked around the room, then called out, "Olly-olly-oxen-free! I'm on to you, girls!"_

"_There is no one here but myself, young lady. You are to address me as 'Your Highness'!"_

"_The only 'addressing' you need, mister, are some real clothes!" she fired back. She hefted the basket in her hand and said, "Now, I've come to lay the fire. And you'd best skedaddle, buddy, before the guest who's really supposed to be in this suite shows up and finds you here."_

"_I assure you, young lady, that I __**am**__ the guest who… Fire? You've come to_ _lay the fire? Bless you, my child! Lay on!"_

_She shot him a funny look, but crossed to the fireplace and got to work. Artie watched as she smoothed her skirt and knelt before the hearth. Well, she was certainly a fetching little lady with a lovely shape and gorgeous strawberry blonde hair. She seemed to know her business too as she started with some paper, made a tipi of kindling over it, then laid in some larger sticks. There was the possibility that she was part of the plot against the prince, but the longer Artie watched, the more convinced he became that she was precisely as advertised. Quietly, while her back was turned, he hid the revolver under a nearby table._

"_What is your name, my dear?" he asked as she continued to work._

"_Shasta Mallory. What's yours?"_

"_Shasta? What a curious name! Isn't that the name of one of your American Indian tribes?"_

_She glanced at him over her shoulder, giving him another glimpse of her pretty face. "Sure is," she replied. "My brothers and sisters are named Cherokee, Creek, Mandan, and Sioux."_

_He took all that in, gave it a moment's thought, then said, "Please tell me that Sioux is one of your sisters."_

_She laughed. "Yep, she is. So is Cherry. Creek and Dan are the boys." She was piling the last of the wood over and around her carefully built construction, having to lean forward as she did so. Artie's eyebrows went up as he bent over a bit to get a better look at the girl's shapely, er, shape. The headdress tipped to one side and he had to catch it quickly. He also had to straighten up again in an instant as the girl glanced back at him and nearly caught him admiring her view. "Now, what was your name again?" she asked._

"_I didn't give it," he replied archly._

_She sat back on her heels and looked up at him curiously. "Well, you've got a name, don't you?"_

"_I am the Crown Prince of the Coral Island, young lady. Only the King of the Coral Island dares call me by my name. Not to mention the fact that it's a Polynesian name, and you could never hope to remember or pronounce it."_

"_Oo, still holding onto that one, are you?"_

"_And you will call me 'Your Highness'!" he added._

_She grinned. "Not me, buster. I'm a thoroughly Constitutional American girl, and I never call any man by any hereditary title he didn't earn for himself. I'll call you 'sir' and I'll call you 'mister,' but there ain't no man on the face of God's green earth that's 'highness' to me!" She smiled up at him, a sparkle of challenge in her eye and dimples framing her mouth. "Now who are you, really?"_

_Softening his voice and manner slightly, Artemus said, "Miss Mallory, I assure you that I really am the Crown Prince of…"_

"_Yeah, yeah, the Coral Island. They've had us hopping all week getting ready for the prince's visit. Fern says…" Suddenly she stopped talking, her mouth still open for a moment. "Hang on there!" she said, her eyes popping round. "You really are that there prince?"_

_He restrained himself from rolling his eyes. "Yes, Miss Mallory!"_

_She gave a nervous laugh. "Oh. Umm… sorry about not believing you, Mr Prince sir."_

"_It's 'Your Highness,' " he reminded her yet again._

"_Maybe to the folks back home, but not to me. Well…" Again that challenging sparkle came up in her eye. "I could maybe call you Arthur." _

_Artie frowned. Where had that name come from? "Why would you ever do a thing like that?"_

"_Oh, you see, in our old stories, there was a king named Arthur, and I thought with you being royalty and all…" She tipped her head, plainly mulling something over. "On second thought," she said, "you don't look like an Arthur. You look more like an Artie."_

_Artie nearly choked. "I… I look like…"_

"_An Artie. It's a nickname for Arthur. You know, since you won't tell me your real name." Shasta reached into the pocket of her apron suddenly and pulled out a matchbox. "Oh, but I need to finish up here and get on with my work." She slid open the matchbox, then frowned and upended it. "Empty! I thought I…" She made an impatient noise, then looked in the basket too. "Oh, no matches! How am I supposed to light this fire?" Now she came to her feet in a single fluid motion that Artie found particularly admirable._ _"And there wouldn't be any matches on the mantelpiece either, now would there?" she said to herself. "No, of course not. Oh!"_

_Turning to the man in the silly outfit, she said, "I'm sorry, Artie. I don't suppose you'd have any… Oh no, not in those clothes, you wouldn't. Look, I'm sorry. I'm going to have to go get some matches. I'll be right back." She paused and took a good look at him. "You know," she said, frowning, "you've got goose pimples."_

_Artie pulled the cloak closer around himself and muttered, "Tell me about it."_

_She laid a hand on the bare skin of his arm. "Well, like I said, I'll be right ba… You're shivering."_

_He didn't answer at first. The disappointment of the lack of matches had made the room suddenly feel like an icebox. Then, slowly, he made the observation, "Your hand is warm." He shot her a glance out of the corner of his eye, then looked away._

_She lifted her hand and looked at it for a second. "Whose idea was it for you to wear clothes like that here in the mountains anyway?" she demanded. "Doesn't it ever get cold where you live?"_

_He shook his head and let his jaw go a bit slack, just in case his teeth might want to chatter._

"_Poor Artie," said Shasta. "I, um… I could, you know, try to warm you up."_

"_You were going to get the matches," he said._

"_I meant right now," she answered. She stepped closer. Reaching up, she removed that overbearing headdress from his head and set it down in a nearby chair. She then lifted both hands and, after a moment's hesitation, laid them on his chest. Now she took another step closer and slid her arms around him, running her soft warm hands over his back as he wrapped the silly feathered cloak around them both. _

_She rested her cheek against his shoulder, her eyes closed. "How's that?" she asked._

"_Bet… ah, better," he responded._

"_Good," she whispered as he drew her even closer, settling her deeply in his arms. _

"_How's that?" he asked her in return._

"_Nice," she answered. "You… you know, Artie, I've never been hugged by a man in a skirt before."_

"_I, uh, bet you've never been kissed by a man in a skirt before either," he said._

_She opened her eyes and looked up into his face for a very long moment. "Well, no, that's true. That's never happened to me before," she said. She looked up at him a little longer, then abruptly her eyes flicked to something beyond him. "Candles!" she exclaimed._

"_Hmm? What?" he responded, caught completely off-guard._

"_The tapers in that candle stand are lit!" said Shasta. "And they're long and thin, perfect for lighting your fire! I'll just…" _

_She started to slip out of his embrace, but his warm chuckle forestalled her. "Oh but, Shasta my dear, don't you see? You've already lit my fire. So, um… why don't we just, ah… bask in it, hmm?"_

_She looked up at him in puzzlement for a moment before she caught his meaning. With a little chuckle of her own, she snuggled close again. As she tilted her chin up toward him, her eyes closed in anticipation. _

_And Artie, beaming in delight, bent his head over hers to press his lips tenderly against her sweet mouth._

…

And now Shasta was kissing him again, and her kiss was every bit as beguiling as Artie remembered. It took him some effort to force himself to pull out of it. "Shasta, you shouldn't do that!" he hissed to her. Swiftly he poked his head back out the door, took a glance up and down the hall, then with an ardent sigh of relief to find they hadn't been observed, he pulled the door shut and faced her. "Now," he started sternly, "what do you think you're do…"

He never finished the question, for once again Shasta flung her arms about his neck and kissed him like there would be no tomorrow.

It proved harder to disentangle himself the second time than it had the first. "Sh-shasta!" he protested. "You can't keep on doing that!"

She laughed. "Of course I can, Artie! I'm just so delighted to see you again! Why, you can't even imagine!"

She lunged at him anew, and he just barely warded her off this time. "I don't have to imagine," he muttered. "But look. You shouldn't be here, and you certainly shouldn't be kissing me like that!"

She planted her fists on her hips and glared at him. "And why not?" she demanded.

"Why not? Well, for one thing, I'm working. And…"

Her merry laugh interrupted him. "So? You were working the last time too — or have you forgotten?"

Forgotten? The very thought derailed him for a second. As if he would ever forget the only other time he'd met Miss Shasta Mallory! Or would want to forget, for that matter. "All… all right. I'll grant you that. I _was_ working the previous time. But this time is plainly different!"

"No, it's not. It's not a bit different!"

For a stunned moment Artie stared at her. Not a bit different! "But… Great jumping balls of St Elmo's Fire, Shasta, of course it's different now — you're engaged to be married!"

"No, I am _not!"_ she snapped at him, her eyes blazing, and for emphasis she stamped her foot.

"What? What do you mean, you're not betrothed? Prof Bergman said…"

"I _know_ what he said, but he's lying! Look!" She held her left hand up before Artie's face. "Do you see a ring?"

"No."

She tossed her head. "Of course not! Oh, but that horrible man! About three weeks ago, you see, the professor suddenly announced at the dinner table that I had agreed to become his wife — which was news to everyone, and most especially to me! He had _not_ proposed, and I had certainly never accepted. But when I tried to point that out, he just outtalked me, saying how endearingly shy I am. _Shy!_ Now, I know you and I didn't have a very long acquaintance before, but would you ever describe _me_ as shy?"

"Ah…" He chuckled, thinking of how quickly their relationship had progressed that time, as well as her determined attempts to throw herself into his arms just minutes earlier. "No, not really."

"Mrs Bergman was furious with me when I took her back to her rooms that evening and swore to me I should never marry her Halliday. I assured her that I agreed with her completely and had no intentions whatsoever of marrying her son." Shasta dropped her eyes. "It took me a while to get her to believe me though. Apparently ever since they first moved here, he's had this endless parade of young women he's presented to his mother as candidates for his bride." And she gave a shudder.

"A few days after that announcement, he tried to give me a ring. I threw it down on the floor and stomped on it, and gave him a nice hefty piece of my mind. He knows good and well that I said I wouldn't marry him if he were the last man on earth!"

Artie grinned. "I bet you did. And slapped him?"

"Well, no. I think maybe he anticipated it once I stomped on the ring and so he stayed back out of my range. But I've got one in reserve for him any time he warrants it and is within arm's length! I just wish he'd cut it out with calling me his fiancée to everyone he meets. I have very good reasons not to marry him!"

Artie perked up. "Beyond the fact that you don't love him, you mean?"

"Oh yes! For one thing — and this carries a lot of weight with me — he's horribly rude to his mother! Any man who's that disrespectful toward his own mother isn't likely to treat his wife any better, and probably much worse — I just know it! And…" Suddenly she shot Artie a sharp look, then reached up to touch his cheek. "By the way, I, uh… I never did exactly apologize for slapping you, did I?"

"No, but that's all right. Go on. What else about Prof Bergman?"

"Oh, but…" Her hand caressed his cheek, then slipped around to the back of his neck. "You _do_ forgive me, don't you? I'm awfully sorry."

"I suppose. But tell me…"

His continued query about the professor was instantly sidetracked. "You _suppose? _What, you want another one?" And she drew back her hand threateningly, her eyes flashing.

"Oh no no no!" Artie answered hastily. He caught her hand and kissed the back of it gently. "You're forgiven, Shasta, utterly and completely." He now caressed her cheek, and with a lopsided grin added, "You know, I never could stay mad at you." And as she smiled and slipped into his arms, he knew he'd taken just the right tack with her. "Now," he murmured and gave her a kiss on the forehead, "why don't you sit down right here with me and tell me every little thing you know about that despicable Professor Bergman, and especially any reasons you know of to explain why anyone would want to kill him, hmm?"


	5. Act Two, Part Two

**Act Two, Part Two**

Two o'clock arrived and, belatedly, so did Artie. "Oh, hi, James."

Jim fixed him with a penetrating gaze. "Hi, yourself. It's a quarter past the hour."

"It… it is?" Artie pulled out his own pocket watch, glanced at the hands, and winced. "Oh, I'm sorry, Jim! I was talking with Shasta and lost track of the time."

Jim's eyebrow arched. "I see. Talking." And he reached for Artie's jacket and plucked a long curling strand of strawberry-blonde hair from his collar.

"Oh. Uh…" Artie thumped at his nose with a forefinger, then rubbed at the back of his neck. "But we really were talking, Jim."

"About matters of international diplomacy, no doubt."

"No, about Prof Bergman. And let me tell you, she doesn't have a very high opinion of him." And Artie filled Jim in on… well, on _most_ of the conversation.

Jim pondered this new information. "So in her opinion, Bergman is a cad. He's disrespectful toward his mother, condescending toward Shasta herself, and seems to regard his assistant Levesque as if the Frenchman were the village idiot."

"That's the gist of it, yes."

"Do you believe what she told you?"

Artie gave a small shrug. "I don't see why I shouldn't. Most of what she said, we'd already seen with our own eyes during dinner."

"That's true, but… Are you sure she doesn't have some ulterior motive in painting Bergman as a rogue?"

Artie gave a small bark of laughter. "Ulterior! Oh, c'mon, Jim, what possible ulterior motive could she have?"

"She's a woman. For all we know, she may well be trying to use you to make Prof Bergman jealous."

"Jeal…" Artie gaped. "But why on earth would she do that?"

"Well, he doesn't sound like the most thoughtful of fiancés. Perhaps she has in mind to get him to pay more attention to her."

"_More_ attention? I don't think so, Jim. If anything, I believe she'd like _less_ attention from him, if not none at all. She…"

Jim put up a hand, and Artie hushed instantly. From somewhere within the house had come a soft sound, a dull _whump_ accompanied by the sound of… of breaking glass? But from which direction?

Artie smacked Jim on the chest with the back of his hand. "The home laboratory on the ground floor! I'll bet you anything that's where the sounds came from!"

And now they heard an additional sound: a voice. It was very weak, very faint, but unmistakably a man's voice. And it was calling out, "Help!"

The agents took off running.

…

Jim reached the door to the lab about half a second ahead of his partner and grabbed the doorknob. He shook it, but it didn't budge.

"Locked?" exclaimed Artie. "But it wasn't locked earlier when Weldon was showing us around."

"Well, it's locked now," Jim replied, reaching for the lock pick he always kept handy under the lapel of his bolero jacket.

"Is… is someone there?" came the voice from within the lab, far more feeble now than it had been when they'd heard it upstairs. "Oh, oh please, help me! Please hurry!" it implored.

"Hurry it is," said Jim. Jamming the lock pick back into its tiny pocket, he instead planted one foot firmly on the floor and with a solid kick rammed his other foot right through the door's lock. The door frame splintered, and the rest of the door swung around to clatter against the inside wall.

Both agents rushed inside. Artie had expected to find a wall of flames in the lab, and was pleased to see that this was not the case. In fact, the lab looked surprisingly normal. With a glance towards each other, the two agents split up, going off in different directions to search for the man whose voice had led them in here.

Jim rounded a lab counter. "Artie!"

There he was, Prof Bergman, lying faceup on the floor with a rack of broken flasks at his side. Glass shards and puddles in a rainbow of colors, along with a lot of some sort of black powdery substance, lay all around him. There was blood on the professor's forehead — a good bit of blood, in fact. Artie whipped out a handkerchief and pressed it to the man's brow. "Hold that in place," he said. "We'll get you washed up and bandaged in short order. It's probably not bad, since scalp wounds always bleed like the dickens, but we can get a doctor to come take a look and…"

Bergman clutched at Artie's sleeve. "No! No doctors!"

"But…" Artie shot a look at Jim who, after pulling away the overturned rack and setting it back up on the counter, was now examining the rest of the wreckage. "But, Prof Bergman, you're injured. Surely you want us to send for a doct…"

"No! No, I'll be fine. It's hardly anything. See, a few cuts and…" He broke off with a wince and suddenly cradled his left hand to his chest.

"I told you to hold that cloth in place!" said Artie crossly. "Now let me see that." He pried Bergman's right hand loose, put the handkerchief back on the man's scalp wound, and jammed the professor's hand back atop it. Then Artie took a good look at the back of the professor's left hand — and gave a low whistle. "You've got a pretty bad burn there on your hand, Professor. Second degree at the least, and probably made by…" Artie leaned closer and took a small sniff of the wound. "…some sort of acid, I'd venture. What were you working with? Is it safe to flush this off with water?"

"It… it should be. I only had in mind to test the effect of hydrogen peroxide on a sample of _S aureus_ I've been culturing."

Artie's eyebrows arched. "You're working with staphylococcus?" he queried.

Bergman stared at him in surprise for a second. "In… in fact, yes. But how would you know about staphylococcus?"

"You'd be surprised at what my partner indulges in for his recreational reading," Jim cut in, deadpan. "But what happened here, Professor?"

"Oh. Well, I was simply… Here, help me up."

The agents obliged, and the professor began gesturing at the counter before him. This was not easy to do, since any time he waved his left hand at the counter, he immediately regretted it because of the burn on that hand, but any time he used his right, Artie instantly and firmly returned that hand to the handkerchief staunching the wound on the man's forehead. At length, though, the tale came out.

"I took one of the culture samples from there," and Bergman indicated a set of small glass dishes at a nearby table with a conspicuous empty spot in the midst of the orderly array, "and placed it here," and now he nodded at the counter in front of him. The majority of the mess in the lab was centered here around the cracked remnants of a small glass dish — clearly the one missing from the other table — out of which was sprouted, like the tentacles of some unnatural octopus, a number of twisted blackened columns of… of what?

Artie took a closer look, then delicately touched one of the columns, which promptly crumbled. "Pure carbon?" he guessed. "And I would hazard this is the source of the black powder on the floor as well, isn't it?"

Bergman scowled. "I was coming to that. I set the _S aureus_ here, then took up that container of hydrogen peroxide from over there." Bergman pointed at a tall case full of many shelves. Jim stepped over to the case and swiftly located a dark brown bottle bearing the label of _H__2__O__2_—_ 10%_. "Thank you," said Bergman. "I filled a test tube with the peroxide, then returned the bottle to its place. _S aureus_, as you may know," and he now shot an annoyed glance at Artie, "is commonly present in a suppurating wound, and one of the substances that has been found to act upon such wounds is hydrogen peroxide. I wished to observe the reaction of the ten percent solution of peroxide upon the cultured staphylococcus — which _should_ have been a great deal of bubbling, accompanied by heat. However, when I added the contents of the test tube to the culture dish…"

Bergman's voice broke off then and he closed his eyes with a shudder of horror.

"What happened, Professor?" Jim asked.

"The black tentacles, I presume?" added Artie.

Numbly Bergman nodded. "It… it was ghastly, like… like a… a doorway had opened into Hell and that… _thing_… crawled out of it! I…" He paused and gave an unsteady laugh. "Well, I… jumped, I guess you would call it. The sudden sight of something for which I was assuredly _not_ prepared caused me to leap backwards. I can only guess that my arms flailed out, and I hit that," he said, pointing at the rack which had been on the floor at his side, "knocking it over. Most of the flasks upon the rack, as you can see, shattered, spilling their contents, some of which are acids, across the counter and onto the floor. And I…" He paused again, this time with an uncharacteristically sheepish look on his face.

"You what, Prof Bergman?" asked Jim.

"I… guess I must have stepped in one of the puddles and slipped," Bergman replied. "All I know is that I suddenly found myself on the floor with a great pain in my forehead and another such pain on my hand."

"You fell, hitting your head, and apparently your hand landed in one of the spills of acid," diagnosed Artie. "The question is, as the reaction you got wasn't the one you were expecting: Why?"

"I… suppose you're right. Something must have gone horribly wrong, but…" Bergman looked around at all the detritus of broken glass and spilled liquids. "I… I don't understand," he finished lamely.

"Well, let's try replicating your experiment," said Artie. He found a handy lab stool and perched the professor upon it. "Jim, may I see that?" He held out his hand for the bottle, and Jim passed it to him.

Artie glanced at the label again, then held the bottle up to the light and tried to peer through the dark brown glass. "Hmm. Jim, come to think of it, why don't you move Prof Bergman closer to the door, please?"

"Artie, you're going to be careful, right?" asked Jim as he helped the injured man to another stool nearer the open, not to mention ruined, door.

"Well, I do have an advantage over our good professor here, James my boy," Artie answered cheerfully.

"And that is?"

"That I know to anticipate the black tentacles from the depths of Hell!" Artie bobbed his eyebrows at his partner, then selected one of the many culture dishes from the array on the table. Next he rummaged around the lab and found a heavy black rubber apron and some matching gloves. He pulled these on — "Just in case!" he said — and added a pair of large protective goggles. Lastly he poured a little of the liquid from the bottle marked _H__2__O__2__ — 10%_ into a test tube just as Bergman before him had done, but instead of holding the tube in his hand, Artie put it into a long-handled clamp, then took a second clamp and secured it to the end of the first, doubling the length from which he could control the test tube. And now he called out, "Just a precaution, you understand, but _duck!"_

Jim gasped in a lungful of air and hunched over the professor, shielding him, as Artie too held his breath and carefully poured the contents of the test tube into the dish of _S aureus_.

_FOOM!_

…

Between the two of them, West and Gordon hauled the dazed and still bleeding scientist back upstairs to his bedroom. "I'm a bit surprised," Artemus commented, "that all this noise and activity hasn't attracted anyone's attention."

"At least that little experiment both the professor and you performed so dramatically didn't result in a fire," Jim replied.

"Oh no no. There was never any danger of _that_," said Artie confidently. "The culture dishes are full of a type of gelatin, isn't that right, Professor?"

The professor gave a vague sound of assent.

"Along with a good bit of sugar to feed the bacteria you're culturing, isn't that so?"

Again the mumbling agreement.

"Well, there you have it! Sugar is primarily carbon, and as anyone who's ever neglected a batch of caramel can tell you, it turns black when it's burnt. Whatever is in that dark brown bottle you used for the experiment, it's most assuredly _not_ hydrogen peroxide — and whoever substituted the new liquid for the old doesn't have your best interests at heart."

They now arrived at the bedroom to find that the door was, of course, locked. Jim glanced at the injured man. "Prof Bergman, we need to get you back into your bed and get your wounds taken care of. Where's your key?"

No reply. The man simply slumped between them. A worried frown creasing his brow, Artie hastily checked Bergman's pulse. No, it was fine. Fine and strong.

"Professor," Jim prompted again, "your head is still bleeding. If you're not going to let us into your room, I'll just have to pick the lock."

Bergman jumped in their hands. "_No!_ No, my… my room. You can' come in," came the increasingly slurred response.

"But your wounds need attention," Artie explained patiently. "You can hardly expect…"

"No doctors!" Bergman interrupted with a growl.

"Perhaps he's recovering," said Jim drily.

"He does seem to be back to his usual charming ways," Artie agreed.

"Listen to me, Professor," said Jim sternly. "We have no intention of inconveniencing some poor doctor by waking him up and hauling him out here to make a house call at nearly three in the morning, not when Mr Gordon is perfectly capable of tending to your head and hand, and to any other injuries you might have sustained."

"And is _already_ going without his sleep," put in Artie.

"So the only question for you is this, Professor," Jim continued. "Do you want to be comfortable in your own soft bed while Mr Gordon cleans and bandages your wounds, or would you prefer we dump you right here in the hallway for him to treat you on the cold hard floor? Your choice."

"I vote bed, personally," Artie chimed in winsomely. "Much easier on my knees, you know."

Professor Bergman seemed for the first time since they'd left the lab to come fully alert again. He blinked at them both, then stared for a long moment down at the floor — his prospective emergency room — before looking the men in the eye again. "All… all right, fine," he mumbled at last. He took out his key and let them all in.

It was a large room, richly and tastefully appointed with all the usual bedroom furnishings. Jim and Artemus supported the professor over to his imposing four-poster bed, sat him down and divested him of lab coat and vest, tie and shoes, then slipped him under the snowy-white sheets. "There you go," said Artie cheerfully, "right at home in your own little bed. Now, I'll just go fetch a basin of water and some towels, and we'll be in business."

Shortly Bergman's multitude of injuries were all squared away. Artie turned down the lights and followed Jim to the door.

"How bad is he?" Jim asked sotto voce.

"Oh, believe me, with all that glass and acid scattered around, it could have been much worse — and probably should have been. His guardian angel must work on overtime. He had quite a number of small cuts from the broken glass; maybe I should have kept count as I mercurochromed 'em; well over a score. The worst injuries, of course, were the obvious ones. The head wound — it'll leave a scar, but it looked worse than it really was: just a simple straight cut like all the smaller ones. The main thing I'm concerned about, though, is that acid burn on the back of his hand. That one bears watching, since it might well get infected, and it definitely will make a scar, a bad one. I'll talk to him in the morning once he's awake and alert to make sure he'll keep an eye on it. I mean," and Artie chuckled, "he _is_ a professor of microbiology! If anyone ought to understand how important it is for him to keep that burn clean and free of infection, _he_ should!"

Jim nodded. "Good. Nothing life-threatening then."

"No," Artie replied with a shrug and a shake of his head. "Not as long as he keeps a careful eye on that burn. Oh, and procures a new bottle of _authentic_ peroxide to use on it should it start to suppurate."

Again Jim nodded. "Fair enough. All right, I'll leave you here then..." and a twinkle crept into Jim's eye as he added, "…to finish your shift guarding him overnight."

Artie's eyes rolled in response. "And you? I suppose you'll be getting a good rest-of-the-night sleep, hmm?"

"Not yet, no. I want to get back down to the lab before anyone else can disturb it."

"Mm! Yes, with that broken door, you're going to have a time securing the lab until I can analyze everything of interest in it, aren't you?"

"Yes, the bottle of hydrogen peroxide that obviously isn't, along with those twisting carbon tentacles," said Jim.

"For that matter," Artie mused, "whoever switched the contents of the peroxide bottle might have put something other than gelatin into the culture dishes."

"True. But there's an even greater mystery I hope to clear up by starting my investigation of the lab right away."

"Oh? And what's tha…?" Artie broke off, interrupting himself with a sudden snap of his fingers. "Of course! Along with every other strange thing about the incident in the lab just now, there's also the question of how, uh…" Again he broke off, this time to nod toward the professor.

"Exactly," said Jim. "There's the burning question of just how Prof Bergman managed to get down there to his lab at all when all night long I was standing guard outside his bedroom door. Somehow he gave me the slip — and I want to know how."

Artie nodded. "Not to mention, why."

**End of Act Two**


	6. Act Three, Part One

**Act Three, Part One**

The remainder of the night was quiet, but with morning came the visitors, a whole parade of them, starting with Weldon. The butler did a good job of hiding his astonishment to find Mr Gordon actually in the professor's chambers, but the sight of the bandages on the master's head and hand brought forth a string of questions, all of which Artemus answered soothingly, finishing with, "And I'm sure Prof Bergman would rather be left alone to get a little more rest this morning," as he saw the butler back to the door. "You understand."

Weldon stiffened. "I'd much prefer to hear that request from his own lips," he intoned gravely.

"Well, when he does wake up on his own, I'll be sure to pass that message along to him." And Artie managed to nudge the butler out the door.

He no sooner closed and locked the door and leaned back against it with a sigh of relief when another knock sounded. Keeping his voice low, Artie hissed, "Weldon, he isn't awake yet!"

"But I am," came the reply.

"Jim!" Artie got the door open again in record time and slipped out into the hallway.

"Everything all right here?" Jim asked.

"Yes, he's been sleeping and I think he'll be fine, just fine. The hand'll take a while to heal, but other than that…" He let a smile finish his assessment, then asked, "Hey, did you find anything?"

"Not yet. I have the culture dishes and that bottle of fake hydrogen peroxide locked up in our room for now until you have time to check them."

"All right. I'll get to them after breakfast. Shouldn't take me more than an hour."

Jim shot him a look. "That quickly?"

"Well, I gave it some thought while I was watching over him, and I've got a couple of prime candidates in mind for what _shouldn't_ be in the bottle to try first."

"Just be careful," Jim added with a teasing smile. "That lab's already suffered through two incursions from the pits of Hell overnight, as well as the door frame being kicked to pieces. Don't want anything worse to happen."

"Hey, I'm careful, I'm careful! Maybe you missed noticing it, but unlike _somebody_ around here," and Artie jerked his head toward the bedroom and the occupant sleeping within it, "_I_ came through the second incursion completely unscathed! So I…"

"Oh, there you are!"

Both agents turned at the sound of a feminine voice. Shasta Mallory, clad in a dressing gown with her lovely strawberry blonde curls tumbling about her shoulders, came hurrying along the hall. "Weldon was just by to speak to Mrs Bergman, and said that the professor is injured?"

"He'll be touched by your concern in rushing to his side," observed Jim.

Shasta shot him a frosty look. "I came because Mrs Bergman sent me to find out what's going on. She may think he's a louse every bit as much as I do, but this is still her son we're talking about!"

Artie drew her aside and gave her a very brief account of events, along with his prognosis. "You can tell Mrs Bergman he'll be fine soon enough."

"Mm. I see." She frowned. "Where'd your friend go?"

"Oh, he went on inside the professor's room while you and I were talking. We're still charged with protecting him, you know."

"Then Prof Bergman ought to stay in one place and let you do it!" she said, still frowning. She glanced down at herself then and added, "Guess I'd better go get dressed now. Mrs Bergman didn't give me time to change. Not," she added with a sly smile on her lips, "that I mind _you_ seeing me like this." She leaned in very close and whispered, "But I sure don't want _him_ spotting me in my nightgown!"

She glanced toward the bedroom and Artie followed her gaze. "Now, just which _him_ are we talking about, Shasta my dear?" he asked teasingly. "Jim, or the professor?"

She shot him a withering look. "The one who keeps tossing the word 'fiancée' around, of course!" She shook a finger at Artie. "Oh, you're just begging for another slap, mister," she told him with a gleam in her eye. "I'm starting to think you like them." And with a very light tap on his cheek, she chuckled and sashayed off.

Artie rolled his eyes and returned to the bedroom. "How is he?"

"Still sleeping." Jim was roaming about the room, casually peering behind the furniture and all the paintings on the walls. "Artie, do you see anything here that looks to you like…?"

"_Sacré bleu!"_

And now the final member of the parade was standing agape in the doorway. Marcel Levesque stared at the man in the bed with bandages on both head and hand — and apparently forgot his English. _"Qu'est-ce que c'est?"_ he blurted. _"Pourquoi est-ce que m'sieur le professeur ont les bandages sur la tête et le main? Il y a une occurrence dans la nuit?"_

Artie caught the young man by the shoulders and led him to a chair. "Now, now. Everything's all right, _M'sieur_ Levesque. Just a minor mix up in the lab, that's all. Prof Bergman's going to recover just fine, you'll see."

"Prof Bergman," came a gruff voice from the bed, "will recover even better if _some people_ would have the courtesy to take their conversations elsewhere!"

Levesque gave a happy burble and rushed to Bergman's bedside. "_M'sieur le professeur! _You are awake!"

"With all that French gibber-jabber going on over there, what else did you expect?" he grumbled. "Now where's Weldon? I've got a lecture at nine this morning and I need to get read… Ohhh…" For as he threw back the covers and sat up on the edge of the bed, Bergman suddenly swayed and dropped his head into his hand,

Instantly both government agents were at his side. Artie checked his vitals swiftly. "Pulse is fine. Pupils look good as well. Likely you just sat up too fas…"

"Now, now, get away!" growled Bergman. "Who died and appointed you my doctor?" He waved Gordon off and snapped out, "Well? One of you make yourself useful and go fetch Weldon! I need to get dressed and… Ohhh…"

He reeled and fell back on the mattress. Again Artie was prompt to check his vitals. "Do you feel sick?" he inquired. "Any headache? Or nausea?"

Bergman blinked up at him. "What… what difference does it… make if I do?" he replied, his voice weak now, all the fire gone out of it. "I… I have that lecture to… to give at nine. I… I mustn't be… be late…" He looked around, confusion in his eyes. "Weldon? Where's Weldon?"

"Professor," said James West, "you don't sound like you're in any condition to teach a class today."

"Nor even to stir from this bed!" Artie agreed.

"But… but the class! I've… I've never missed a lesson since I've been teaching here. What of the students? I…"

"_Pardonnez-moi, m'sieur le professeur, mais… _The lecture. You have it written out, _oui?"_

"Why, yes, Levesque. The notes are right there on my desk. _The Importance of Maintaining an Antiseptic Environment While Treating Patients._ The demonstration materials are all ready and waiting in the lecture hall. Why… why do you ask?"

Levesque smiled. "It would be my honor, _m'sieur le professeur,_ to give the lecture in your place." He made a small bow.

"What?" Bergman scoffed. "Oh, don't be ridiculous. I'm not _that_ bad off! Just give me a few minutes to, ah…" Again he made shift to get to his feet, and again he fell back onto the bed. "Ohhh…" he groaned.

"_M'sieur le professeur, s'il vous pla__î__t!_ Make no further attempts to rise lest you do yourself a greater injury!" Levesque crossed to the desk, took up the lecture notes, and glanced through them. "Ah, _oui_. I shall make the lecture, and you shall rest. _C'est bien_. All is well."

"If… if you're quite sure," said Bergman dubiously.

"_Bien sûr_," said his assistant. He smiled and waved as he left the room. "_À __bientôt."_

"And now you do your part and get your rest," said Artie as he tucked the injured man back into bed. "We'll send Weldon up with some soup later."

"But I…! Oh, very well."

"Mother hen," murmured Jim as they stepped from the room. "I'll take over watching him. When you send Weldon up with the soup, have him bring me some breakfast as well."

"All right. And I'll get right on the testing of those chemicals after we eat," said Artie.

And he was as good as his word. However, just as Artie finished setting up his apparatus and donning his protective gear, in through the broken laboratory door rushed the sobbing form of Shasta Mallory.

"Oh, Artie!" she wailed and flung herself into his arms.

"Shasta! What's the matter? Don't… don't tell me Prof Bergman's taken a turn for the worse?"

"_Bergman!_ Do you think I'd be upset like this over _him?_ No, no, Weldon just told us. There's been a message from the university. There's… Oh, I don't know what happened, but there was some sort of accident. Marcel Levesque was in the middle of a lecture when he opened a container of, well, _something!"_

With a sinking feeling in his heart, Artie asked, "A container of what? What happened?"

"Oh, I have no idea! But the next thing the students knew, Marcel collapsed, just fell right over unconscious! They took him to the hospital, but — oh, Artie! It's just _horrible!"_ She attempted to throw herself into his arms once more, but he was already on the move, shucking off the lab apron as he headed for the door.

"So you're telling me that when _M'sieur_ Levesque took over the lecture Prof Bergman was scheduled to give, he wound up in the hospital? Where's Weldon? I want to see that message. And has anyone told Jim?"


	7. Act Three, Part Two

**Act Three, Part Two**

Jim, predictably, was not happy with this new turn of events. "This was the same lecture Bergman was supposed to make, right? The one Levesque insisted on teaching in his place?"

"As far as I know, yes," said Artie. They had both read the note, which was remarkable for its paucity of details.

Jim drew in a long breath and let it all out again in a rush. "This complicates things," he said, thinking rapidly.

"Looks like whoever set up the little surprise for Bergman in the home lab here had an even bigger surprise for him ready in the lecture hall. If one didn't get him, the other would."

"Without considering that if the first trap did work, someone else might get caught in the second." Jim glanced at Bergman's bedroom door. "He's still sleeping. I'll lock him in his room while I search the lab downstairs again — again and again, if necessary! — and in the meantime, you go on over to the lecture hall and find out exactly what happened. Whatever that container was that Levesque opened, secure it and find out what's in it — safely, that is — and see if you can speak to any of the students who saw it happen."

"Right. I'll check at the hospital too and see what the doctor can tell me. But, Jim…" Artie touched his partner's arm. "Just keep in mind: that particular lock hasn't kept Bergman safely behind that particular door in the very recent past."

Jim nodded. "I know. And I plan to get to the bottom of _that_ little mystery as well, if I have to turn this entire house upside-down. I've already gone over every inch of the professor's bedroom while he's been sleeping."

"And found nothing?"

Jim shook his head. "Not a thing. If there's a way out of that room that doesn't involve the door, I haven't found it — yet."

"Weldon might know something," Artie ventured.

"He might. But he also might be working for the other side."

"Mm. Because somehow someone got into that lab even though we'd gone over the whole house to be sure no one could get in." Artie thought for a moment, thumping a finger against his nose, then added, "You know, there _is_ another possibility, Jim…"

"There certainly is. I don't like the thought of it, but it could very well be the case. At any rate, there's the lecture hall still for you."

"And taking this house apart for you," Artie agreed. With a little sparkle in his eye, he patted Jim on the arm and quipped, "Try to leave a few bricks one on top of the other, will you, though? At the very least, leave the kitchen somewhat intact so we can still get fed!"

There was just a hint of a twinkle in Jim's eye as well as he responded with a dry, "I'll see what I can do. No promises."

"Thank you, James my boy, I do appreciate that. Now, I'll go lock away those culture dishes and the pseudo-peroxide in our room again before I leave."

…

Minutes later, having finished locking up, Artie was taking the stairs at his usual headlong pace coming down to find Weldon and request that the professor's other carriage be made ready for him. And just as he reached the bottom of the stairs, _whump!_ Someone came rushing along the downstairs hall and plowed right into him. The next thing Artie knew, he was sprawled on the floor in an untidy tangle along with…

"Shasta!"

"Oh! Oh, Artie, I'm so sorry!" she apologized effusively as he sprang to his feet and helped her up. "Mrs Bergman is sending me on an errand, and it's quite urgent. I didn't see you."

"No no, it's all my fault; I should be the one apologizing to… Errand? Ah… does that mean you'll be using the second carriage?"

"Well, yes. Why?"

"Because Jim is sending _me_ on an errand, and as our errand is government business, I'm afraid it takes priority over yours."

"Priority!" Anger flared up in her lovely face. "And since when does _anything_ take priority over a good deed, I'd like to know!" she fumed. "Besides, you can just ride your horse!"

Oh, she was absolutely gorgeous when she was angry! The memory of how her palm had connected with his cheek on a previous occasion when she was angry cautioned him not to put that sentiment into words, however, or at least not at this particular moment. Lowering his voice, he packed as much regret as he could into his next statement. "I'm so sorry, Shasta, but it's imperative that I get to the lecture hall right away to investigate what happened to _M'sieur _Levesque, and I'll need to collect that container that was mentioned in the note. I can't carry that on horseback, so I'm afraid you'll just have to…"

She grabbed his hands. "The lecture hall! But that's perfect!" she interjected.

"…wait until I'm… Sorry? What was that?"

"The lecture hall! It's right down the block from the hospital. You can drop me off on the way, then pick me up again afterwards." She smiled up at him glowingly.

"You… Wait, you're going to the hospital?" Somehow, Artie found himself feeling like an intruder in his own conversation.

"Well, of course! Mrs Bergman said I must rush at once to poor Marcel's side to hold his hand while he lies upon his bed of pain — and she also told me to demand of the doctor exactly what happened and what the prognosis is, and to assure him that we will spare no expense for Marcel's recovery." She dimpled and added, "And she means it too. She has her own money independent of the professor's. She can well afford to pay every bit of the hospital bills."

"Oh. Oh, I, uh, see."

There was a clatter outside the door. "Oh, there's the carriage!" Shasta exclaimed brightly. "Let's go!" She tucked her hand through Artie's arm and all but dragged him out the door. He recovered quickly enough to hand her up into the carriage, and once he followed, even before he could take his own seat, she called out to the driver, "The hospital, please, Jeffrey. And hurry!"

…

Jim, having left the professor locked in his bedroom in convalescent slumber, was now going over the laboratory yet again. There had to be _something_ — a sconce, a bit of wall trimming, a certain piece of lab equipment — _something_ had to be the trigger device to open up a secret passage. It was the only explanation for how Bergman could have slipped from his room down here to the lab without anyone — in particular, without _Jim_ — having seen him.

Curious, though, how many fine houses he and Artie had encountered in their years of Secret Service work that had secret passages within their walls. He couldn't help wondering why so many people seemed to include such a feature when having a grand house built. For that matter, according to Shasta the Bergmans hadn't lived here very long. Had the fact of a secret passage been mentioned as a selling point to encourage them to buy the place?

Hmm. Artie had suggested asking Weldon and Jim had declined. But perhaps Mrs Bergman might know something. Jim left the lab behind and set off to find the professor's mother.

…

Shasta cuddled up against Artie's side. "Isn't this cozy?"

In fact it was, and Artie had to force himself to focus. "Shasta, I'm working," he chided gently.

She chuckled. "Riding in a carriage is work?"

"I'm on my way to do some work, and I could be spending this time thinking about the case."

"What's there to think about? You know something happened to poor Marcel, but you don't know what, so how can you come to any conclusions until you know the facts? And you won't know the facts until you get there, so…" She settled back into the cushions with a smile. "So let's get comfortable and think about other things."

Well… she did have a point. "And what other things did you have in mind, hmm?"

She tipped her head to one side and studied his face, a speculative smile on her face. Reaching up, she brushed aside that stubborn lock of his hair that always seemed to fall forward over his forehead and said, "I've missed you. I, I mean… Well, not a tragic, languishing, pining away sort of missing you! Not a 'He's gone and therefore my life is over' kind of missing you. Just… Well, we never got to have that, uh, dinner together, you know…"

"Until last night."

She snickered. "Oh yes, that's exactly what sort of dinner you proposed we have, an intimate dinner for five, including your partner, my employer, and a man who insists on calling me his fiancée! I'm sure that's the very thing you had in mind when you invited me to dinner!"

"Ah…" Artie frowned. "Wasn't it _you_ who proposed we have dinner that night?"

"Um…" She blushed — fetchingly, of course. "Well… not exactly…"

He cast his mind back to the night in question, remembering the feeling of Shasta in his arms, and of kissing her, and of no longer feeling so very very cold…

_A century or so later the kiss ended and both came up for air. She rested her cheek against his shoulder and whispered, "Better?"_

_He gave an unsteady laugh. "Oh, I'm warm now!"_

_She sighed. "Me too." She gave him another brief squeeze, then slipped out of his arms. Looking around, she noticed the feathered cloak where it had at some point fallen to the floor around their feet. This she gathered up, folding it by habit before laying it on the same chair with the headdress. She next crossed to the candle stand, lifted out a taper, and knelt before the fireplace to light the fire._

"_There," she said once she'd replaced the candle. Smoothing down her uniform, she turned away and picked up the basket. "Well," she said softly, "I need to go. I need to get back to work."_

_He smiled after her. "Will you be back? I could, ah, make a mess of the place and need a maid to straighten up."_

_She paused halfway to the door. "Oh. Well, the problem with that is they might send out one of the other girls to clean it up. After all, I'm going to be dreadfully late getting the rest of the fires laid and lit, so I won't be on call for cleaning messes for a while."_

"_Oh," said Artie wistfully._

"_Of course," she added, turning back only partially, so that he saw her in profile. Her head was bowed, a sheepish look on what he could see of her face. "I, um… I get off work at midnight. There's a dorm out back for us girls to use. I could… you know, come back and check on you after my shift's over. See if you need, uh, warming up again." A slight blush went creeping over her face._

"_I'd like that," said Artie. "If the kitchen isn't closed, perhaps we could order in a late supper."_

_She smiled and blushed again. "That would be nice, Artie."_

"_I'll be looking forward to it, Shasta my dear."_

_Their eyes caught and held for a moment, then she left, pulling the door closed behind her. _

_The dinner date never came off, of course, for as Artie, no longer chilly and in high spirits, went to peruse a small table with a cut-glass carafe and various glasses, a new knock came at the door. And this time the visitor was in fact someone who wished ill to the prince whom Artie was impersonating. Artie was carried off to a mountain cabin where his life was endangered and the real extent of the plot surrounding the prince was unfolded to him and his partner. There they spent a long night — and for Artie, a cold and uncomfortable one — waiting for morning and the opportunity to turn the tables on their captors._

_Late in the morning, having arrested the conspirators as well as the wicked prince himself, they turned the others over to the local authorities, then brought the prince along with them to the suite to pack up and head back to the train to report to Washington. They would need further orders regarding the nefarious prince and what to do about him; for the moment, he was handcuffed and in Jim's personal custody._

_Jim hauled the prince into Suite A; Artie, still attired in feathered cloak and sarong, followed along behind. He picked up the revolver and its bullets, then the headdress as well. "This is all I had with me, Jim," he said. _

"_Fine," said Jim. "My bags are over here." He opened the adjoining door into Suite B and shoved the prince through, then dropped him off in a chair as he went to pack. Artie was feeding the bullets back into his revolver when there came a noise from the other suite. Jim and Artie exchanged glances, then both started toward the adjoining door._

_The door opened, revealing a strawberry blonde in a maid's uniform._

"_Shasta!" Artie said in delighted welcome._

_The look on her face as she spotted him was neither delighted nor welcoming. "You louse!" she glowered. "You stood me up! Nobody stands me up!" She stormed into the room and fetched him a ringing slap across the face._

_He rubbed at his pained cheek. "No, Shasta, you've got it all wrong. I didn't stand you up; I was kidnapped."_

"_K… ki… kid… kidnapped!" she spluttered. "Don't you lie to me, you Polynesian fink!" She aimed another slap at him, but this time Artie ducked under her hand. Her own momentum sent her spinning around, and Artie, tossing the gun to Jim, caught the girl and held her fast._

"_I'm not lying," he insisted. "I really was kidnapped. Jim! Tell her!"_

"_He really was kidnapped, Miss, ah, Shasta, is it? Both he and the prince here," said Jim with a nod toward the real prince, who was smirking as he watched the entertainment._

_The girl struggled for a moment, then took a good look at all the occupants of the room. "Wait a minute," she said. "First, who's Jim? I thought he was Roger Colby. And second, what does he mean by you __**and**__ the prince? You kept insisting to me that you __**were**__ the prince!"_

"_Ah," said Artie. "Long story. Let me explain." He drew her aside toward the adjoining door and tried to give her the briefest possible narration of all that had happened in the past twenty-four hours._

_There was still skepticism in her eyes when he finished. "So. You aren't the prince, despite all your efforts yesterday to convince me you were."_

"_I didn't know who you were, Shasta, and it was imperative to maintain the illusion that the prince was here at the spa. Lives were at stake. I, uh…" His voice dropping to a whisper, he added, "I wasn't faking how cold I was."_

"_You do still need to get into some decent clothes," she said. A little sparkle came up in her eyes then. "Are you, uh, chilly now?"_

"_Oh no, I'm fine. I…" He stopped abruptly, made a little shudder, and said, "Come to think of it, it __**is**__ a bit cool in here."_

_She took his hand and drew him back through the door into Suite A. "You might feel a little warmer in here," she said._

"_Oh, you think I might?" he inquired, allowing himself to be led._

"_Mm-hmm. After all, there's a nice big fireplace in this room…" She slipped her arms around his neck._

"_And you're so very good at lighting my fire," he replied, pulling her close._

_She grinned. He grinned. They kissed._

"Artie?"

He shook himself out of the reminiscence. "Huh?"

Shasta nodded toward the window. "We've arrived."

Sure enough, there was the hospital. "Oh, right!" Artie stepped out and helped the girl to alight, then escorted her inside.

"I think I can find my way from here," she said.

"All right. I'll be back as soon as I'm done checking the lecture hall. And when I return, I'll want to speak with the doctor who is treating Levesque, so would you mind letting him know?"

She dimpled. "Of course."

Artie waited long enough for her to find a nurse to escort her upstairs to see the professor's assistant, then headed back outside to the carriage, wondering what if anything he would learn at the scene of Levesque's, er, accident.


	8. Act Three, Part Three

**Act Three, Part Three**

To Jim's surprise, Mrs Bergman was not in her chambers on the ground floor. The invalid's companion was not in evidence either, and a check with Weldon supplied Jim with the further surprise that Miss Mallory had last been seen leaving in the carriage with Jim's own partner. With this new intelligence to ponder, Jim roamed through the ground floor in search of Mrs Bergman.

He found her at last in the library. She was in the act of stretching up, trying to pull down a book from a shelf that was just a shade too high for her to reach from her wheeled chair. She was in fact nearly coming up out of the seat, and Jim, not wanting her to overbalance herself and fall — there had been entirely too many injuries to members of this household in the past few hours! — called out, "Let me get that for you."

She fell back into the seat, her head swiveling to stare at him in consternation. He smiled back genially. "I'm James West," he said. "You remember me? My partner Artemus Gordon and I are staying here with you for a while to protect your son. We met at dinner last night, and also in the yard a few minutes before that when you and Miss Mallory arrived in your carriage."

The look of alarm melted from her face as she nodded, apparently recalling now who this stranger had to be. He crossed to her side and scanned the shelf towards which she'd been reaching. "Which book would you like?" he asked, curious to see that the books here were all on the subject of…

She grunted and pointed out a certain volume, the title of which encapsulated the entire shelf. "_The Art of War_?" said Jim as he plucked it from the shelf.

She nodded with another inarticulate grunt.

Jim flipped through the book, a slim volume, translated from an ancient work by the great Chinese strategist Sun Tzu. "Interesting choice," Jim commented. "I've read this many times."

Mrs Bergman gave an impatient grunt and thrust out her hand in a clear demand that he quit stalling and give her the book. He did so, then asked, "Would you like me to push you back to your rooms?"

She shook her head emphatically. Dropping the book onto her lap, she grasped the wheels of her chair and made her own way to the door. She was none too pleased to have to wait for him to open it for her, and the last he saw of the strange old woman was the sight of her shoving the wheels with quick, peevish strokes as she left James West behind her.

Strange old woman. Definitely strange.

Hm, and he'd forgotten to ask her about a possible secret passage in the house. On the other hand, he mused, even if he had remembered his question for her, he wasn't sure if he would have been able to understand any answer she might have given him. After all, how was he to interpret the old woman's grunts? Only Shasta seemed to have any knack for making head or tail of Mrs Bergman's mutterings, and Shasta wasn't here.

Jim turned and went back to the lab.

…

"Stop that! Stop it at once!"

The young fellow in coveralls nearly dropped his mop as he spun to gape at the stranger storming down the aisle of the lecture hall. "What's the matter?" he squawked.

"Stop cleaning!" Artie ordered. "You're destroying my evidence. I need to see the hall exactly as it was when _M'sieur_ Levesque was taken ill!"

"I… um… All right, mister. Whatever you say." The janitor stepped back with a "Be my guest" gesture.

Artie nodded a thank-you, then looked around, taking in the great barn of a room, every single one of its two dozen windows thrown wide open. He focused quickly on the dais itself. "Have you moved anything?" he asked, adding, "Mister ah…"

"Griggs. Hal Griggs." The janitor extended his hand, drew it back hastily and wiped it off with the bandanna from his pocket, then offered the handshake again.

"Artemus Gordon," Artie replied. "I'm here to discover what happened to Marcel Levesque. Were you here when it happened?"

"Funny thing, but I was," said Griggs. "I mean, most of this stuff the professors spout goes right over my head, but this here lecture was on keeping things clean, y'know, so I thought I'd poke my head in and see if Old Man Bergman would even know one end of a broom from the other! Only it turned out it wasn't the old man giving the lecture today; it was that young fellow, the Frenchie."

Artie nodded. "Levesque."

"Ok, if you say so," said Griggs with a shrug.

"And what happened?"

Another shrug. "Well, he was going right along, reading it to all the students off of them notes there," and he jerked a thumb at the rostrum. "Then he got a little flustered. He read out loud, 'Now open the container marked _A'_ before he realized that he wasn't supposed to _read_ that part; he was supposed to _do_ it. Took him a bit of looking around to find the container too."

Artie spotted a large metal bucket with a hinged lid secured by a wire bail. "That's it there, right?"

Griggs grinned. "Only container in the room marked _A_, yeah."

"But it's closed. He didn't open it after all?"

"Oh, he opened it, all right!" said Griggs. "Took him some grunting and straining — that bail's a tight one, and I wish it had stayed tight! — but then he released the lid and threw it open." Griggs paused, his face going pale. "Mr Gordon, it didn't take three seconds for that fellow to turn as glassy-eyed as a fish, and then he pitched over right on his nose! About half the students jumped to their feet, and the ones in the front row started reeling like they were about to drop too. I was all the way in the back there," he pointed, "and even _I_ was starting to smell it. Funny smell. Nasty! Started my eyes burning and my lungs too."

A look of horror came over Artie's face and he turned a glance at the now-sealed container. "Somebody closed it again though," he said.

Griggs nodded and poked himself in the chest with his thumb. "Yeah. I did. Something somebody told me back when I first started working as a janitor flashed across my mind, so I hollered for everyone to get out and help those out who couldn't make it on their own. Then I yanked out a bandanna — not this one; I got me a clean one since — in fact, I changed my clothes entirely! But I yanked out a bandanna and pressed it over my face so I could run down here and get that container shut up tight again."

Artie gave a shaky smile. "That was some quick thinking. You, uh, opened the windows too, to let the chloramine gas dissipate?"

"The what?"

"The toxic gas. At least, I assume it was chloramine. I suppose what you remembered was someone telling you that you can use chlorine bleach to clean with, or you can use ammonia to clean with, but don't ever mix the two of them together to clean anything."

"Oh, you got that right," said Hal Griggs with a wry smile. " 'Cause the only thing you'll clean _that_ way is your own plow — permanently!"

…

Jim stepped back from examining the tall shelved case filled with the myriad labeled jars and bottles of Prof Bergman's chemicals. This case seemed the most obvious candidate to cover a secret exit from the lab, yet Jim had touched and moved every jar in the case as well as everything within a three-foot perimeter around it no less than five times. He'd done the same for every other thing in the lab too, and nothing! No secret exit. And yet there had to be, there had…!

Wait. The fact that Prof Bergman had disappeared from his bedroom and reappeared here in the lab didn't necessarily mean that the secret passage Jim hadn't been able to locate in the bedroom connected to the lab, now did it? The entrance was in the bedroom for all that its location had eluded him, but the exit could be anywhere on the ground floor. Or for that matter, anywhere on the upper floor. Jim stood for a moment, ruminating, going over all that he had seen of this house, mentally putting each room into its place like the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle.

And then he had it. There was a bit of extra space between the dining room and the kitchens. Not a large amount of space, not something that would be glaringly obvious unless one was actively looking for it. But now Jim knew it was there. Instantly he strode for the dining room and began probing the walls, looking for anything that moved…

_Click._

And there it was. One of the motifs of the red-flocked wallpaper depressed under Jim's hand, opening a slender doorway. He looked within and found, curiously enough, that not only was there a narrow stairway leading up to the second floor, but there was an additional stairway, slightly wider, leading down toward the cellar.

It took Jim less than a second to make his decision. He already knew what he would find upstairs — and added to that, he didn't particular want to alert the man in the bedroom at the far end of the stairs that he was exploring these hidden passageways. Instead, Jim turned to the stairs that led downward.

No sooner had he set foot on the first step when the door swung shut behind him, leaving no sign that there was anything of any interest to be found there at all.

…

Upstairs in his bedroom, Prof Bergman stirred, then awakened. For a moment he frowned as he tried to remember why he was still abed so late in the day. Ah yes! The pain in his hand reminded him.

He stretched, then sat up and looked about. Well, that insufferable federal agent was gone, at least! That was a blessing. Bergman arose, shrugged on his dressing gown, and headed for the door.

Locked? He jiggled the knob again. Yes, locked! And where was the key? Ugh, no doubt it was in the pocket of his unwanted bodyguard James West! Bergman slammed his hand against the door and instantly regretted it. Left hand — bad mistake! Cradling the hand to his chest, the professor went to his desk; he kept some pain pills there.

Hmm! Upon the desk was a note. He took it up and read it, and thus learned of the accident that had befallen Marcel Levesque while teaching that lecture. In the hospital, was he?

Bergman crushed the note and dropped the crumpled ball of paper back onto the desk. The pain pills forgotten, he crossed back to the four-poster and moved his pillow to the foot of the bed. He then lifted out a small section of the mattress from beneath where the pillow had lain, and reaching into the resultant hollow, Bergman pressed a switch. The entire four-poster bed swung out from the wall, exposing a secret passageway within the wall. Smiling, Bergman stepped through, and the entrance closed again behind him.


	9. Act Three, Part Four

**Act Three, Part Four**

It was an unsettling ride back from the hospital, for Artie at least. His eyes kept straying to the disturbing presence of Container A sitting in the corner of the carriage. For Shasta, the disquiet of the trip had a different source.

"Oh, Artie," she sighed at last, slipping her hand into his and squeezing it, "I feel so bad for poor Marcel!"

Artie's other hand covered hers and he patted her slim fingers gently. "He's got a long road of recovery ahead of him," he agreed.

"And all that coughing! I wanted so much to comfort him, but it seemed like the only thing that gave him any relief from all those spells of horrible, raspy coughing was when he, well, when he fell unconscious. He couldn't even talk without having a coughing fit, and the one time I tried to give him some water, well..." She paused and added, "I'm afraid all _that_ accomplished was getting the front of his clothing wet."

"Well, I informed Dr Peters of my suspicions as to what's in that container there, the one that was left for Levesque to open with such disastrous results. Of course, even if we were absolutely sure that the man was exposed to chloramine gas, the main treatment for him is likely to simply be _time_."

She nodded. "And prayer," she added. Shasta shifted in her seat, then turned troubled eyes up towards Artie. "Do you… do you think he'll recover?" she asked anxiously.

He squeezed her hand. "He's young and strong, so I have high hopes for him. Then again, sometimes what a man in such straits needs the most is something — or should I say, some_one_ — to recover for." Artie fixed her with a piercing gaze and added, "You're very fond of him, aren't you?"

A blush flashed over her face. "Why… what makes you say that?"

"The fact that, from the moment we learned _M'sieur_ Levesque had been injured and taken to the hospital, you started speaking of him as Marcel. Your solicitude for his well-being seems a bit more… heartfelt, let's say, than it might be for someone you count as a mere acquaintance." Artie caught her eye and added, "And then there's that kiss good-bye you gave him when the doctor ordered us out of Levesque's sickroom."

She gaped. "But… it was only a kiss on his forehead!"

"Mm. But I saw the look on his face when you leaned in close and bussed him. There was wonder in his eyes. A certain amount of delight too."

A smile broke out over her face, the first real one since they'd had the terrible news. "Oh, do you think so? All this time, I never once thought he even knew I existed. And he's a Frenchman! You know how they're supposed to be these great, well…" She paused, embarrassed.

"Great lovers, you mean?"

Closing her eyes, she nodded. "And I tried so hard to… Oh, I suppose you can guess what I tried to do after Prof Bergman started all that fiancée nonsense."

"Tried to get Levesque interested in you as a method of pushing Bergman away?"

Sheepishly she nodded. "Not that it worked at all. Poor Marcel. All he ever seems interested in is writing in his notebooks. Well, you've seen him!"

"Oh, yes." Indeed he had!

"A couple of times I even leaned over his shoulder to have a look at what he was writing. You know, he has the most gorgeous handwriting, especially for a man who spends so much of his time writing! You'd think it would all wind up looking like chicken scratches, but his hand is very legible." She gave a laugh. "Except that whatever it is, _I_ couldn't read it. I suppose he writes in French."

"Wouldn't be surprising if he does," Artie commented.

"Oh!" Shasta perked up and gave a clap of her hands. "I know something that might help Marcel! We should gather up all his notebooks and take them to him at the hospital. Having something familiar with him, something he loves, that should help him recover, don't you think?"

"That's a very good idea," Artie agreed. "Especially if _you_ bring them to him."

Now it was she fixing him with a piercing look. "And you won't mind?"

Ah. He gave her a gentle smile and patted her hand again. "Now, now. Don't worry about me. We said our good-byes a long time ago. And if your charming presence can give our friend Marcel a fighting chance at recovering, I'm all for that!"

She regarded him for a long moment, then nodded meditatively.

"Besides," said Artie. "He'll be here, and I won't."

"That's true," she responded as the carriage rattled in at the gate of the Bergmans' home and drew to a halt before the front door. Artie climbed out first, then gave Shasta his hand to help her down. "Come on," she said. "Let's go get Marcel's books. Won't he be surprised to see them!" She hurried for the door, then glanced back over her shoulder and caught Artie's eye. And there was something about her stance, with her body turned away but her eyes locked on his — oh, it was so familiar!

He remembered…

_Once again he was caught up in the enchantment of her kiss, and all it took was a knock at the adjoining door and the sound of Jim's voice to break the spell. "C'mon, Artie, time to go. I'm taking the prince. You get my bags."_

"_S…sure, Jim," called Artie. He looked at the girl in his arms. "I gotta go." _

_He turned to leave, but she caught his arm. "He called you Artie! Why did he do that?"_

_Artie chuckled. "Well… because that's my name."_

"_You're kidding me!"_

"_No. Seems you're a very good guesser, sweet Shasta. Although really it's not short for Arthur, but for Artemus."_

"_Arte… Oh now you really __**are**__ kidding me."_

"_No." He smiled at her renewed skepticism. "Artemus Gordon. At your service, my dear Miss Mallory."_

"_Oh, at my service, are you?" She pulled his head down and kissed him again, her hands running through his hair and over the bare skin of his back._

"_Mmm…" He forced himself out of the kiss and the embrace. "I'm sorry, sugar, but I really do need to go now." He patted her cheek, then disappeared into the other room._

_Not unsurprisingly, she followed him. "So you're leaving."_

"_Mm-hmm." He was gathering up everything Jim had left in the room._

"_And I suppose we'll never see each other again," she continued._

"_I…" He paused in the midst of trying to pick up both of Jim's bags while wearing both headdress and cloak, neither of which seemed inclined to stay where they were put. Looking her in the face, he said soberly, "No. I suppose not."_

_She shrugged. "Well, it's not like I was expecting something lasting. After all, you are a visitor here at the spa. But I was hoping to at least get to have that dinner together."_

"_I'm sorry, Shasta," said Artie._

_The headdress fell off. He set down Jim's bags and retrieved the headdress, and the cloak promptly slithered to the floor. He reached down to grab it as well, but suddenly here was Shasta. She picked up the cloak, shook it out, then settled it around his shoulders. Quietly she stretched up for one last kiss, then took the headdress and set it in its proper place. "My handsome prince," she whispered, her eyes bright and dewy._

"_Shasta."_

"_Go on, Artie. Follow your friend. I'll bring the bags."_

"_You will not!"_

"_I'm just a maid. You're the prince. Go on and I'll follow you."_

_He hesitated, then did as he was told. Through the inner courtyard they went, then through the lobby and out the front door, crossed the outer courtyard as well, then out the front gate to where a small wagon awaited. The driver helped Artie in his sarong to climb up onto the front bench — Jim with the prince already occupied the back bench — after which the driver accepted the bags from the girl and stowed them in the back of the wagon behind the second bench. Artie pulled off the huge headdress and laid it on his lap lest it fall off once the wagon got under way._

_As the driver climbed in and took his own seat, Shasta looked up at Artie. "Good-bye," she said._

_With a smile he responded, "_Aloha_."_

_The driver called to the horses and away they went. Artie turned to gaze back at the gate, watching a forlorn winsome figure heading off through the courtyard. At the last possible second, she stopped and looked back. Their eyes met again, only for a heartbeat. Then the wagon moved on and_ _the wall around the spa stole her from his sight._

_Annoyingly, the prince in the back seat was laughing his head off._

"_What's your problem?" Artie growled._

"_You… hehehe! You don't even know what you said, do you?"_

"_I told her 'good-bye,' " said Artie, his voice low as he held in his disgust with the obnoxious prince._

"_You did more than that!" the prince continued to chortle. "Don't you know what _'aloha' _means?"_

"_It means 'hello' as well as 'good-bye,' " Jim put in, hoping the little twit would just shut his infuriating mouth._

"_Yesyesyes," said the prince, "but that's not all it means. My dear Artemus, you just told that common little servant girl that you love her!" And the prince went off into more gales of laughter, until Jim was sorely tempted to tip the royal pain off the wagon into the dust._

_Softly, for no ears but his own, Artie muttered, "Yeah? Well maybe I said exactly what I meant to say."_

"Artie?"

He started, then smiled sheepishly at her. "I'm sorry, Shasta. Yes, I'm right behind you." He followed her into the house and straight on upstairs. She led the way to Marcel Levesque's room, opened the unlocked door, and headed for his desk.

Then stopped dead still in her tracks. Her hand flew over her mouth and she whirled to stare at Artie, horror in her eyes.

"What's wrong?" he said, but he already knew the gist of what she was going to say.

"His books! All his notebooks — they're gone! They were right there on his desk the last I saw them. But… Artie, someone's stolen Marcel's notebooks. Why would anybody do that?"

**End of Act Three**


	10. Act Four, Part One

**Act Four, Part One**

The cellar under the Bergman house, as Jim recalled, was really about half a cellar, extending under only about that much of the house. The hidden stairs he'd found, he had no doubt, led to an unguessed-at second cellar occupying the remaining space under the house — and perhaps, he conjectured as the stairs continued their downward journey, a much deeper cellar than the main one.

There were unusual light sources along the walls, each one consisting of a globe suspended from chains which were in turn hanging from a bracket fancifully carved into the likeness of a human hand and arm. The globes, instead of enclosing burning candles, were filled with some liquid in which floated small glowing globules. Jim stepped closer to examine one of them, finally concluding that there were only two things he could compare them with, one of those being fireflies, and the other phosphorescence on the surface of the sea. The light they gave forth was particularly dim in fact, but it was enough to avoid tripping over the steps at least.

At length Jim came to a door — locked, he was sure. He tried the knob and found he was correct. The door had only a small window, and a glance through it showed the interior was lit by the same sort of illumination as the stairs; at this distance it was hard to make out anything within. Jim then laid his ear to the rough-hewn wood to listen, but heard nothing. This, however, was obviously the end of the trail, for there was nothing beyond this door. Here the passage ended with neither further steps nor hallway. Wherever the descending stairway was intended to lead, Jim had arrived at its destination.

All right. Jim produced the lock pick he kept under his lapel and set to work on the lock. Shortly he heard a _click_ and the door opened. He stepped inside and began to explore.

The underground room was large, though not nearly as large as he had expected it would be; all told it was perhaps the size of the baggage car on the private train the Wanderer that he and Artie shared. Jim looked around by means of the dimly glowing globes, taking in a large desk off to the right and what looked like a surgical table against the wall directly in front of the door. Disconcertingly the table sported a pair of sturdy leather straps near one end, complete with heavy steel buckles.

The left side of the room, Jim found, was all laboratory: shelves full of bottled chemicals, racks of flasks and test tubes, scores of culture dishes much like those upstairs. And on the floor in the leftmost corner was what looked like the world's largest culture dish, perhaps six feet across, covered like the others with a clear glass lid, and full of — full of what? Jim lit a match and tried to get a better look, but saw mostly only his own reflection. He discovered a small latched door in the glass lid, however, so he lifted it to peer within.

A foul odor emanated from the interior of the great dish. Jim yanked his handkerchief out and covered his mouth, then made yet another attempt to see what was inside. The only impression he got, though, was that, whatever it was, it was dark and slimy. And the smell of it made Jim's stomach heave.

Jim shook out the match and closed the small lid in the big one. Hmm. A hidden lab. Prof Bergman already had his lab upstairs as well as the one at the university, so what possible purpose could he have for this one as well, Jim wondered. He looked around again and spotted some papers and notebooks lying upon the desk. Hoping for answers, Jim took up a couple of the pages, crossed to the closest glowing globe, and began to read.

…

"Jim!" called Artie as he threw open the door to the ground-floor lab. "Jim, it was almost certainly chloramine gas that got to _M'sieur_ Levesque — and while he was out, someone got to his note… books…" Artie's voice trailed off as he took a good look around the room. "Jim? Jim, where are you? Jim?"

For a moment he just stood there, taking in the evidence of the search Jim had declared he would make. Right on the face of it, Artie was sure his partner hadn't found a secret passageway in this room. But had he found anything else? And where was he now?

Hmm. Well, if he had no Jim, no hidden doorway, and no notebooks, what did that all add up too? Artie wasn't sure, but he thought of someone to ask.

Striding from the laboratory, he set off to find the butler. After all, doesn't a butler usually know everything that's going on under his roof?

…

His arms full of that absentminded assistant's notebooks, a happy man ambled blithely down the stairway that led deep under the house. "Ah!" he murmured to himself, "how well everything is going along!" Now that Levesque was out of the way and his notes were right here in _his_ possession, why, he would have the research paper pulled together in short order with his own name upon it, ready to present it before the society at the meeting next month in Washington City, and no one would ever dream that the research, the brilliance of the work, had really been accomplished by that bumbling little Frenchman with his nose continually buried in his books! "And best of all," he told himself smugly, "the acclaim that has already been lavished upon the name of Bergman will continue to accrue to it — and the money that goes with the fame. It's a pity, of course, to have to, so to speak, kill the goose that laid the golden eggs, but unfortunately I cannot depend on it that Levesque — for all that he barely pays any heed to anything larger than a microbe! — no, I cannot depend on him to fail to notice when the paper _I_ present at the upcoming conference will contain his own research attributed to me!"

But that was of no importance now. He had here all of Levesque's research save for the notebook the man had carried with him today to the fatal lecture. And in lieu of the Frenchman having any next of kin here in the States, that notebook too would be handed over to the poor fellow's bereaved employer. Ah, he anticipated _years_ of new papers to be written — and the remuneration that would accompany them, of course — all based upon the notes he had appropriated from Levesque's bedroom just minutes before.

"And all under the noses of those vexatious federal agents!" he added gleefully. "Oh, it's just too delightful, how that annoying James West spent so much time searching for this very hidden passage, even probing every corner of my own bedroom while I was supposedly resting and recuperating!" He chuckled maniacally. "And then the other one, hurrying off to see about poor Levesque. Oh, I only wish that his investigation had led him to get a good whiff of the contents of Container A too, the interfering busybody!" He scowled darkly at the very recent memory. "They nearly caught me just now," he growled. "I had only just absconded with these books and slipped into the hidden door in the dining room when I heard Gordon coming in at the front door, right on the heels of that minx Shasta, as usual. I don't know what sort of connection the two of them share, but it had better not impede my plans for the comely Miss Mallory!"

His brows still knitting as he brooded over Gordon and the girl, Prof Bergman reached the end of the stairs and jammed his key into the lock on the door, turning it over by habit without happening to notice that the lock in fact wasn't. He strode on inside and headed for the desk to disburden himself of the books. "There!" he said triumphantly. "And now for a little more light…"

He lit an oil lamp, then sat down and drew his chair close to the desk. An eager, if not hungry, look of anticipation upon his face, Bergman picked up the top book from the stack and opened it to read.

…

It took him a bit of searching, but at last Artie found the elusive butler; Weldon was in the kitchen polishing the silver. The two chefs, both of whom were also present, disavowed any knowledge of Jim West's whereabouts, but Weldon had a snippet of information to impart:

"Mr West? In fact, I did speak with him, oh, perhaps an hour ago. Curiously enough, he was asking after Miss Mallory. I apprised him that she had left with you, Mr Gordon."

"And what did Mr West do then? Where did he go?"

"My apologies, sir, but I had my own work to attend to and did not particularly notice." And Weldon bowed his head over the silver, plainly showing that he had his own work to attend to currently as well.

Artie glared at the top of the man's head. "I see," he said shortly. "And was there anything else that occurred in this house this afternoon that you _did_ particularly notice?"

Weldon spared him a withering glare. "No sir. Nothing at all."

Artie just barely avoided replying with a roll of his eyes. "Well, thank you so much, Weldon," he said, sarcasm simply dripping from his words. "You've been so marvelously helpful." He turned and marched from the kitchen, letting the door slam behind him.

Before he could round the dining table and exit through the other door, however, he heard the kitchen door open and close once again, albeit more softly this time. "Er, excuse me, Mr Gordon," said a voice.

Ah, he recognized that voice; it was that of Mrs Bergman's personal chef. "Yes, Bradley?" Artie swung back to face him.

Bradley dragged the toque from his head and kneaded at the brim of the big white hat nervously. "Well, sir, it's just that… Weldon maybe didn't notice anything out of the ordinary this afternoon, but… well, it may be nothing, you see, but not long before you and Miss Mallory came back to the house just now, I heard a sound in the dining room, so I came over and took a peek."

Artie's ears all but physically perked up. "And you saw Mr West?" he prompted.

"Well, actually, no. It was Prof Bergman in the dining room. He was crossing it with his back to me, heading for the door there opposite." He nodded toward the door Artie himself had been about to pass through. "That's what struck me as odd, you see," Bradley went on. "He hadn't come _into_ the kitchen nor had he come from it either, so what was he doing in here? The only thing I could figure was that he started to go to the kitchen, then changed his mind and left again. But I have no idea what the noise was that I'd heard, Mr Gordon. And…" The chef frowned and tipped his head to one side. "Come to think of it, I'd heard the same sound maybe ten or fifteen minutes before that, and that time when I looked, there wasn't a living soul in this room at all. Isn't that strange?"

Artie jerked a thumb at the door to the rest of the house. "Wasn't the sound you heard simply this door opening and closing?"

"No sir," said Bradley. "I hear folks going through _that_ door all the time. This sound was different, more… well, more whispery, if that makes sense."

"Hmm," Artie mused. He glanced around the room, wondering what could have made such a sound as Bradley described. "Well, ah, thank you. You say Prof Bergman was heading for this door then?"

"Yes sir. I suppose he was going back up to his room."

Which presumed that Jim had let the man out of his room in the first place. "I see. Well, thank you again, Bradley." Artie nodded, stepped through the door, and set off for the front hall to go upstairs.

Just as he set foot on the bottommost step, Shasta came rushing out from the depths of the back hall. "Oh, there you are, Artie! I just now talked to Mrs Bergman, telling her about poor Marcel's notebooks, and I happened to ask her if she'd seen Jim. She says he was in the library for a while, but that it was at least half an hour ago. I went ahead and had a look just now, and he's not there."

"He wasn't in the lab either," said Artie as he continued on up the stairs.

Shasta hurried after him. "Do you think maybe he would have gone upstairs to take a nap?" she asked doubtfully.

"Hmm? No, no, he wouldn't have done that. I know Jim; he wouldn't be caught napping. However," Artie added cryptically, turning a glance at the girl just below him, "he might well have gone up to check on the one person in this household who was absolutely supposed to be napping. C'mon!"

…

The look of happy anticipation on Prof Bergman's face turned to puzzlement, then vexation, followed quickly by something akin to horror as he paged through first one notebook, then another, flipping the pages more and more rapidly until at last he slammed his hand down upon the desk and cut loose with a blasphemous oath. "That… that _idiot!_ French — he wrote every word of his notes in these private books of his in _French!_ I don't read French! I'll have to find someone who does, inveigle them into translating, then dispose of them as well. And I haven't much time before the conference! Why oh why did Levesque have to write these notes in _French!"_

"Perhaps because he _is_ French?"

Bergman whirled at the sound of that most unwelcome voice to see James West emerging from the shadows beside the door. "You!" he snarled.

West gave a small smile. "There's also the possibility that Levesque detected your duplicity and wrote his notes in that manner specifically so you couldn't read them. But considering that Levesque wouldn't detect a fly if it landed on his own nose, that's not too likely."

"You know too much," growled Bergman.

"You set up everything, didn't you?" said Jim. "The falling blackboard to start with, then your accident in the lab at home, all so it would look like an unseen enemy was targeting you — and then when Levesque fell into your trap during today's lecture, everyone would assume your enemy had killed the wrong man. Except Levesque didn't die…"

"Yet!" Bergman interjected, a gleam of fury in his eye.

"And the fact that you had to dodge Mr Gordon and me in order to fake the lab accident in the middle of the night made your little game that much harder too. It also alerted us to the presence of these secret passageways in your house. But that wasn't the only mistake you made."

Bergman glowered at West. "I made no mistakes!"

"No? Then why do you have that cut on your forehead?"

His brows lowering, Bergman reached up and touched the bandage. "This? What's wrong with this?"

"Only the fact that, from what you told us of what happened in the lab last night, the experiment you were working on spewed out those black tentacles, surprising you so that you jumped and knocked over a rack of flasks, then fell on the floor. But you jumped _backwards_, and when we found you in the lab apparently still dazed from the accident, you were lying on your back."

"So?"

"So," said Jim patiently, as if explaining the matter to a child, "if you jumped backwards and afterwards landed on your back, why is there a wound on the _front_ of your head, and in particular, no wound on the back?"

"I…" Bergman stared for a long moment, struck speechless, one hand slowly moving across the surface of the desk. Then, with a cry of triumph, the scientist leapt to his feet and thrust that hand out toward West, holding in it…

A syringe.

Jim, who had been anticipating a gun, had been about to deploy the derringer up his sleeve. Seeing the hypodermic needle in Bergman's hand instead, he cocked an eyebrow at the professor and didn't bother with the gun. "Whatever that is, you're not going to inject me with it," said Jim sternly, "so you might as well drop it."

Bergman crouched and jabbed the needle at Jim, his eyes feverish and mad.

"I said drop it!" Jim reiterated. And when Bergman continued to hold out the syringe as if he would hurl himself upon the federal agent at any moment, Jim stepped forward, grabbed the outside of Bergman's extended arm with his right hand, reached across the man's chest with his left hand and seized the professor's throat in a firm grip that promised pressure if he didn't cooperate. "It's over," said Jim. "You're under arrest. Now drop the needle."

Bergman sagged a little, looking like he might cry. Then the madness flared up in his eyes as he turned the syringe in his hand and depressed the plunger. The needle tip, nowhere near Jim's skin but pointed toward his head, sprayed out a fine mist all over the agent's face.

Jim flinched and clutched at Bergman's throat, applying the pressure he'd hinted at only a moment before. But then Jim's grip slackened as his fingers — indeed, every muscle of his body — relaxed, much against his will. Jim blinked, swayed, tried to stay upright, clutched at his prisoner to keep from falling.

Fell. Struggling to keep his eyes open, Jim saw Bergman leaning over him, that syringe still in his hand. "This?" Jim heard the man say as if through ears stuffed with cotton. "Oh, I assure you, Mr West, the contents of this syringe were never intended to be injected into you. This is merely another of my experiments with chlorine derivatives; it was enough that I sprayed it close to your face so that you breathed it in. But don't worry. I do have an injection to give you. And we'll get to that once you awaken again." Bergman smiled smugly. "After all, I don't want you to miss out on such a life-changing experience!"

Jim fought with his last ounce of consciousness to get to his feet, to get out of the hidden laboratory, to get away from Bergman. "Ar… Artie…!" he mumbled.

Then everything went black.


	11. Act Four, Part Two

**Act Four, Part Two**

Just to be thorough, Artie stuck his head into the room he and Jim shared and took a quick look around. Nope, no Jim. He strode on down the hall with Shasta bustling after him and came to the professor's door.

Artie gripped the door knob and tested it. Locked. He rapped sharply on the door. "Jim? You in there?"

He wasn't surprised that his answer was silence. Now he called out, "Prof Bergman?"

Again there was no reply, and again he was not surprised. With a nod of acceptance, Artie reached into a pocket and brought forth a small box about the size of his palm. It boasted a hole that went right through it, as well as a wind-up key to one side of the hole.

"What is that?" asked Shasta. "A music box?"

"Not exactly." Artie wound up the key, and as the box began to click, he pressed it to the keyhole of the door, then threaded a long thin metal rod through the box and into the keyhole. The box clicked and clacked, and then the door's lock gave a _click_ as well. "_Et voilà_," said Artie. He packed away the box and its rod, then opened the door and ushered Shasta inside.

"There's no one here," she observed somewhat unnecessarily, for certainly the room was empty of anyone but the pair of them.

Artie glanced around, then headed for the desk to take up the crumpled note that lay upon it. "Bergman knows about Levesque's so-called accident," he remarked. "I wonder why he wadded up the message though? What was he thin…?" Artie was yanked abruptly from his ruminations on any motives for the note-crumpling to call out to Shasta, "No, don't touch anything!"

She dropped the pillow guiltily. "Sorry. Old habits, you know. I see an unmade bed, and I want to straighten it up."

Artie crossed to the bed himself. "No, that's fine. But I need to study the room in the exact state in which Prof Bergman left it."

She nodded. "Oh, right. Or the way that Jim left it," she added.

"True, true." He frowned at the bed and lifted the small wedge of mattress. "But what could this be?" he wondered.

"Strange thing to do to a matt… Oh!" A bright smile lit her face. "But of course! He went into the secret passages!" And she knelt on the bed, reached up into the recess from which the wedge of mattress had plainly been taken, and after a moment's fumbling, she found and pressed a latch.

Smoothly the bed swung out from the wall, exposing the hidden doorway Jim had sought for in vain.

Artie gaped at the entrance for a full three seconds before turning a furious glare towards Shasta. "We've been searching for that secret door since Prof Bergman got injured last night! If you knew how to open that passage, why didn't you tell me?" he barked.

Shasta's own jaw dropped and she stared at Artie in return for no more than half a second before she fired back, "Oh? And if you wanted to know about the secret passageways in this house, why didn't you ever bother to ask me?"

"Because I thought…!" He broke off and frowned, running through the past several hours in his head. With a sheepish look, he rubbed at the back of his neck and murmured, "Come to think of it, I guess I just assumed you knew that we were trying to figure out how Bergman got past Jim to go get himself injured in the lab during the night. But you knew where to find the latch to open this door? How?"

"Mrs Bergman described this to me. She told me that one of the reasons her son wanted this particular house was because it came with the hidden passageways that lead to a room under the cellar that he could use as a secret lab. She, ah, told me, she said, because she was afraid he would try to spirit me off down there to, uh… well, you know…"

"What, have his way with you?"

She scowled fiercely. "Where no one would be able to hear me screaming, yes!"

"Well," said Artie, "now we have a missing Jim, a missing Bergman, and a _found_ secret door that leads down to a clandestine laboratory. What are the chances, do you suppose, that we'll find both men together in that same covert room, hmm?"

"Probably pretty good," she replied. She started for the door behind the bed.

"Oh no, you don't!" said Artie.

"No, I don't what?" she asked, frowning.

"You go on back and take care of Mrs Bergman. I'll go down the spooky ol' stairs and find out what's going on."

"But you just said something about the odds that _we_ would find Jim and Bergman down there!"

Artie opened his mouth, but no sound came out. Consarn it, the girl was right! He hemmed and hawed a bit, but finally had to admit that his big mouth had gotten him into trouble again. He sighed. "All right. But you stay behind me, and if anything starts to go wrong, you run for it. You hear me?"

"Loud and clear, captain!" said Shasta pertly, and for good measure she gave him a snappy salute.

Artie closed his eyes and shook his head. He had no doubt whatsoever that he was going to regret this! "Stay behind me," he reminded Shasta once more, then led the way into the secret passage.

And the bed, of course, smoothly swung itself shut behind them.

…

From somewhere far, far away, Jim heard a groan. Someone was injured? Artie perhaps? He should go check, Jim thought, and he tried to get up.

_Tried_ being the operative word. For one thing, Jim's head felt like it was filled to the brim with tapioca. And for another thing… He made another attempt to roll over and get his hands under him to push himself upright, only to confirm that, yes, for another thing, his hands were all but immobilized somewhere in the vicinity of his head.

He heard the groan again, and this time he knew the sound was coming from himself.

"Well!" said a voice, shamelessly gloating, "and are we waking up now, Mr West?"

"I don't know about _you_," Jim retorted sluggishly, "but I'm awake, yes."

"Excellent! Now, do you see this?"

With great effort Jim forced his eyes open, then at length convinced them to work in tandem enough to focus on the figure looming over him. Prof Bergman. Of course. And with a syringe in his hand. Double of course.

"This," said Bergman proudly, "is the injection I promised you. Have you any idea what it will do to you?"

Jim's brain still felt like it was composed mostly of oatmeal. "Turn me into a pretty princess?" he hazarded at last.

Bergman lifted one eyebrow even as both corners of his mouth drooped into a frown. "This is hardly time to be making jests, Mr West," he admonished.

Jim attempted to shift his hands, testing his range of motion. He had recovered enough brainpower now to realize he was lying on the surgical table he had noticed earlier here in this underground lab, and that the sturdy leather straps of that table were buckled firmly around his wrists. His hands were at either side of his head on a level with his ears, and he could barely move either hand more than two inches. What's more, every stitch of clothing from his waist upwards had been removed — and the sleeve derringer device was gone with his shirt. Perfect.

Bergman chuckled malignantly. "Oh, you're not going anywhere, my friend. You are precisely where I want you to be — for now." A smile lit his face as he added, "But it's so good of you to have dropped in on me! I've been wanting another, ah… specimen upon which to test my bacteria. _Bergmanium geriatricus_, I call it. I considered recruiting Levesque as my next test subject, but of course I needed him dead. Miss Mallory would have served also, but she, alas, is instrumental in _another_ plan I have in mind. I suppose I might have used one of the servants, but — well, it's just so much more _satisfying_ to experiment on someone one loathes, don't you agree?" And with a grin, Bergman pressed on the plunger of the syringe, sending a fat drop of some viscous liquid out the end of the needle to drip onto the floor.


	12. Act Four, Part Three

**Act Four, Part Three**

"That secret door opens into the dining room," Shasta whispered as she and Artie reached the landing.

Artie nodded. "I suppose it was the sound of Prof Bergman leaving this passage and closing the door behind him that drew Bradley's attention. I wonder where Bergman was going, though? Bradley said it was just before you and I…" He stopped talking suddenly and snapped his fingers. "Of course! Just before you and I arrived back here at the house and made the discovery that Levesque's notebooks were missing!"

She frowned at him. "What are you saying? Do you think Prof Bergman took the notebooks? But why?"

"For a reason Jim and I thought of earlier, only to hope we were wrong." He took her arm and steered her into the stairs that led on downward. "Consider this, Shasta: what if the attacks on Prof Bergman were nothing but shams? What if he himself arranged for that blackboard to fall off the wall, and then he faked the injuries in his lab overnight?"

"But Marcel's injuries aren't faked!" she insisted immediately. And then she realized what she'd just said. "You mean that skunk made it look like someone was gunning for him, when really he was setting things up to go after _Marcel?"_ Eyes blazing, she hissed, "I'll kill him!"

Artie lifted a calming hand. "Let Jim and me handle this, Shasta. Bergman's only worthy of the death penalty if someone actually dies from his machinations — which we certainly hope won't happen."

Slowly she nodded, knowing the one person most likely to die was poor Marcel. Artie gestured for her to fall in behind him, and the pair crept on down the stairs.

…

Jim's mind was clear of the cobwebs now, and he knew what he needed most to do at this juncture was to keep the professor talking and wait for him to make yet another mistake. "And what might that experiment be?" he asked.

Bergman smiled. "Why, it's right here. Let me show you." He waved a hand at the giant culture dish on the floor, then stepped over and lifted the small window in the huge glass lid. "This, Mr West, is _Bergmanium geriatricus_, a microorganism of my own discovery. It…"

"In other words," Jim interjected, "something that you _didn't_ steal from Marcel Levesque."

He saw Bergman's back stiffen, and the man whirled to glare at him. "In fact, no! I discovered _Bergmanium geriatricus_ long before that idiot savant Frenchman came into my life! I made many trials with it, injecting it first into mice, then rabbits, cats, dogs, and so forth, working my way up the ladder of mammalian life. And do you know what I found?"

Jim gave a long sigh. He had no doubt that, if he remained silent, this megalomaniacal scientist would tell him everything. On the other hand, the name Bergman had bestowed upon his pet sludge had given Jim some idea of what it might do. And so he replied, "I suppose you found that it makes whatever you contaminate it with older."

Bergman beamed happily. "Yes, yes! That's exactly right! Older, and suffering from all the ills that accompany old age, and yet with a prolonged lifespan in that state. Imagine that! Elderly mice that live on and on. Old cats, old dogs…"

"Old people?"

The professor chuckled evilly. "Ah, but you anticipate me, Mr West. Yes, old people. Or more accurately, _one_ old person. One impediment to my plans, one hindrance blocking me from the funding I needed to continue my studies. Oh, it was a pleasure, performing that particular experiment! Just a little of my delightful _Bergmanium geriatricus _sprinkled onto a plateful of food, followed by the entertainment of watching my subject wither into decrepitude!"

A piece of the jigsaw puzzle clicked into place in Jim's head. "That's why she has her own chef and won't eat her food if anyone touches it. You used that devilish stuff on your own mother."

Bergman grinned wolfishly. "Oh, it's worse than you know. She's not my mother. In fact, she's no older than that little minx Shasta Mallory." He leaned closer and hissed, "Margaret Bergman is my _wife!"_ And he laughed maliciously. "Isn't that perfect? I married her for her money, and everything would have been perfect had it not been for the fact that her father took an unreasonable dislike to me and tied all her money up in a trust fund. She only gets a small monthly stipend, not nearly enough to finance my work. Worse, he set up the terms of the trust such that there was no way for me to get my hands on the principal! If she should die, the money would be turned over to a charity to be wasted on the support of widows and orphans." He gave a snort at the foolishness of that idea. "And when I sought to act as every husband has the legal right to do, to direct the affairs of his wife's finances, I found I was barred — barred! — from exercising the right of power of attorney! Her father had the gall to prohibit anyone male, most particularly me, from acting legally on Margaret's behalf. Only a woman could acquire that power of attorney." He drew himself up tall and smugly added, "So I found a woman. Miss Mallory."

"And she agreed to go along with this?"

Fury twisted Bergman's face. "That infernal girl! She has thwarted me at every turn. She won't even accept the honor of being named my fiancée! She never gave me a chance to lay out the rest of the plan. Not that it matters though. She'll do what I tell her, whether she wants to or not."

"You have a way to coerce her," said Jim.

"But of course! The simplest method of all! She'll do anything I say to prevent herself from becoming old before her time the same as Margaret — and she'll see exactly what my _Bergmanium geriatricus _is capable of," and again he smiled evilly, holding up the syringe in his hand, "for she will see what it has done to _you."_

Noticing something that Bergman hadn't, Jim seized on a stratagem to keep the professor's attention from straying. "Don't you mean _B geriatricus_, Professor? Isn't it customary to abbreviate the genus name?"

Sure enough, Bergman's face turned red with anger. In three swift strides he crossed the room to lean over his captive upon the table. "Not when the genus name is based upon my own!" he hissed into West's face. And in that moment, with his full attention turned upon James West and his back to the door, Prof Bergman failed to notice that the lab door was easing its way open.

…

"What are those things?" Shasta asked, waving at the odd lights along the walls.

"Hmm? Oh, some sort of photoluminescent microbe, I shouldn't wonder, microbiology being Bergman's specialty." He paused, then added thoughtfully, "Or perhaps I'm attributing the discovery to the wrong biologist. Maybe these are something Levesque discovered."

"They don't give a whole lot of light," Shasta observed.

"That they don't. However, as we're now coming into the domain of the scientist we believe to be the villain of this whodunit, we should do so in utter silence." And laying a finger over his lips, Artie mouthed to her, "No talking."

They moved on, descending deeper and deeper underground. And soon they began to hear voices.

"…_do you know what I found?"_

Shasta pressed in close to Artie and hissed into his ear. "There's that scum Bergman!"

"Yes, yes, I know," he murmured back sotto voce. He waved his hand at her to remind her to keep silent.

"_I suppose you found that it makes..."_

"And that's Jim!" Shasta hissed once more.

Artie turned a ferocious scowl upon her and slammed his forefinger against his tightly closed lips. He then used his hand to mime a mouth opening and closing, jabbering away — used his other hand to forcibly silence the first — then stabbed a finger in the direction of the stairway they had already descended. "Understand?" he finished silently.

Mutely she nodded. She could either keep quiet or be banished back up the steps. She mimed turning a key to lock her lips shut, then tossing away the key.

Artie rolled his eyes in response and led the way once more. Shortly they arrived at the end of the stairway with its big rough-hewn door. Artie peeked in through the window and saw by the light of the oil lamp at the desk that Jim, stripped down to his trousers and boots, was lying on a surgical table just opposite the door. No, not just lying there — he was secured to the table by a pair of thick leather straps buckled around his wrists. And his eyes, Artie noted, were turned toward the corner of the room off to the left of the door.

He continued to listen in on the evil professor's monologuing. At the point when Jim said, "You used that devilish stuff on your own mother," Artie, having come to the same conclusion at about the same time, grabbed Shasta and slammed a hand over her mouth. She writhed in his grip in a passion of rage.

"Shh!" Artie breathed in her ear. "You don't want Bergman to realize we're here, do you?"

That calmed her down — for a few minutes, at least. But when Bergman bragged of having found a woman to aid him and named Shasta by name, she seethed, "That snake! I'll kill him!" and Artie just barely blocked her from storming in to do just that.

"Hush or leave!" Artie insisted sotto voce. "Have you forgotten your promise?"

"But that… that… _Oh!"_ she hissed. "There's a perfect phrase that describes him, but I never would use it because it was an insult to Mrs Bergman too. But now that I know she's not his mother, I can call him what he is, that son of a b…!"

"Shasta!" Artie slammed his hand over her mouth again. "What happened to your lips being locked shut, hmm? I don't want him to hear you and me out here! Now stay quiet and keep back out of the way, and let Jim and I take of him. Clear?"

She fell silent and nodded, her eyes still smoldering with fury.

"Good," murmured Artie. He turned his attention back to the scene within the hidden lab just in time to hear Jim saying, "Don't you mean _B geriatricus_, Professor? Isn't it customary to abbreviate the genus name?"

Ah, and now here came Prof Bergman swooping in from that corner to lean over Jim. "Not when the genus name is based upon my own!" the man snarled.

Perfect. With the professor's attention fixed fully on Jim, it was time for Artie to make his grand entrance. He reminded Shasta with gestures of her most recent promise, then pulled a little item from a pocket. This he swiftly wound up, and with a finger preventing the key from unwinding itself, he eased open the door just far enough to pitch the little device into the room. It landed to the left of the laboratory shelves, and its key began to click.

"It's a pity," Bergman was saying, the syringe in his hand poised high over his captive, "that Miss Mallory isn't present at this very moment to feast her eyes on your transformation, so that she can see the fate that shall befall her if she dares to disob… _Gaahh!"_ For a sudden onslaught of noise and light erupted from between the shelves of the lab area and the giant culture dish. Bergman flung an arm across his eyes even as he whirled toward the source of the racket.

The door sprang open. Artie charged in and with one hand relieved Bergman of the syringe while with the other he belted the man in the chin. He then dropped the syringe to the dirt floor and crushed it under foot. Even as Bergman hit the floor, Artie was already undoing the restraints that held Jim to the surgical table. "James, James," he said with a shake of his head. "Always lying down on the job."

"Yes, because it's so restful listening to a mad scientist harangue on and o… Watch out!"

Bergman was up again, insanity flaming in his eyes. From his desk he grabbed another syringe and rushed at the two men. Artie sprang to one side while Jim, with only one wrist free as yet, brought up both feet and kicked out, catching Bergman in the chest. The madman flew backwards, the latest syringe spinning from his hand. He landed painfully out in the corridor.

Artie rushed after him, leaving Jim to unbuckle his other wrist. But before he could collect the professor, a feminine form stepped in Artie's way. "You louse!" Shasta fumed as the man cowered before her, trying to scramble back to his feet. "This is for what you did to Mrs Bergman!" And she fetched him an ear-ringing slap across the face.

"That's fine, Shasta," said Artie, pulling her away. "We'll take care of him. You're not very good at remembering your promises! Just step aside and…"

An arm snaked around the girl's waist as Bergman seized her. Panting, he pulled a vial from his pocket and flicked the stopper out with his thumb. "Back!" he cried. "Back, or I'll pour the _Bergmanium geriatricus _on her, and we wouldn't want that, would we? Poor little Shasta, old before her time? It doesn't have to be injected or ingested, you see! Now, back, both of you! Back into the lab!"


	13. Act Four, Part Four

**Act Four, Part Four**

The two agents gave way before the madman as he manhandled the girl into the room as well and shoved the door shut again with a foot. "There!" said Bergman gleefully. "And now we'll carry out my experiment just as planned, but with _two_ new subjects!" He grinned at the men. "You, West, back up onto the table. And Gordon, you buckle him back down. No tricks!" He gestured with the vial.

Deliberately, his eyes never leaving the enemy, Jim hopped back up onto the table. Artie too kept watch on Bergman as he did the man's bidding — though not all of it. As he affixed the straps around Jim's wrists, he indulged in a bit of sleight-of-hand, hiding something useful in Jim's right palm. He then backed off, both hands high. "All right, Bergman," said Artie. "I've done as you asked. Now let the girl go!"

"What, and have her miss the grand transformation? Ha!" Bergman nodded toward his desk. "You sit there," he told Artie. "No, no, not on the chair! On the floor, under the kneehole." And as Artie obeyed, Bergman dragged Shasta across the room. "Pick that up," he ordered.

"Pick what up?" she replied, temporizing.

"Don't be an idiot!" he growled. "There's some rubber tubing there. See it? Pick it up. You're going to use it to tie Mr Gordon to the leg of the desk. Don't move, Mr Gordon!" he added.

Artie, who had in fact been moving, settled back down and waited for Bergman to haul Shasta back.

"Now," said the professor. "No tricks, my girl. You tie his wrists behind his back and around the leg of the desk, and they'd better be the tightest, soundest knots you can make if you don't want me to use _this_ on you right away!" He waved the vial.

Artie, having glanced at Jim and spotted what he was up to, said loudly, "She'll do a good job. She doesn't want to lose her youth." He was rewarded; he achieved his goal of keeping Bergman's attention on him and away from Jim. For his partner was surreptitiously using the little slide-out knife blade Artie had slipped him to saw one-handedly at the restraint on his right wrist.

"Tie him!" barked Bergman. He shoved the girl down by Artie's side and wound the fingers of the hand with which he was not holding the vial into her hair. He gave a yank. "Do it!" he hissed.

Shasta fumbled with the tubing, misery in her face. "Oh, Artie, I'm so sorry! I've messed everything up!" she lamented.

"Now, now," said Artie. "Don't worry about it. Just do your best; that's all anyone can do, right?" As he spoke, knowing Bergman wouldn't be able to spot the action, he tilted one hand to let Shasta see what he had in his palm.

He also shot her a wink.

Shasta blinked back. "I…" she said at last, "I don't know how to make good knots."

"Idiot!" Bergman growled and yanked on her hair again. "What kind of a fool do you take me for? You can sew, can't you? Just make knots! It's not that difficult!"

She bent to the task, or tried to. "I can't move!" she complained. "I need to get nearer."

With a snort of disgust, Bergman leaned down further, bringing not only the girl but himself closer to Artemus Gordon. And in the next second, several things happened.

One was that Artie's hand came up and flung a fistful of dirt from the floor into Bergman's eyes. And as the madman lost his grip on Shasta and pawed at the grit in his eyes, Jim cut through the first restraint. With one wrist free, Jim kicked out at the professor, sending the man reeling away. The vial spun from his hand and landed near the door.

Artie grabbed Shasta and dove for the far side of the desk. "Stay there!" he ordered.

Jim slashed the other restraint off his wrist and sprang at Bergman. The two crashed into the door, Jim pounding his opponent. The other man, though, wasn't fighting back. Instead he scrabbled at his pockets with one hand, while with the other he tried in vain to shield his face.

"Watch out, Jim!" called Artie. "He may have another vial!"

And he did. Laughing in triumph, Bergman wrenched a second glass vial from a pocket and tried to flick out its stopper as well. Even as he did, Jim leapt backward and kicked the vial away. Bergman stared in shock at his empty hand, then with a roar of rage he pounced on Jim West. "You!" screamed the professor. "You've ruined everything!" He twisted, trying to force Jim toward the huge culture dish on the floor.

Jim slipped from Bergman's grasp and pulled the man's arm up behind his back, holding him firmly. "All right, Professor," he said. "It's over now. Come along quietly; you're under arrest."

"No! No, it's not over. It can't be over! I…!" Suddenly, with a mad laugh, Bergman managed to break loose. He lunged for the giant culture dish on the floor behind him, wrenched up the edge of the great glass cover, and shoved it aside. "I have _Bergmanium geriatricus! _With this I shall destroy you all!" He was fumbling at his pockets again, this time producing yet another syringe, amazingly enough not broken.

That's when the door opened. "Why, what are you all doing down here?" came a strange voice, followed by a gasp. "Halliday! You haven't!"

A woman was in the doorway, one hand over her mouth, her figure dimly lit by the oil lamp at the desk and the luminescent globes on the stairs behind her. For Jim and Artie, the sight of this familiar woman standing at all was a surprise, but for Prof Bergman, the spectacle came as an extreme shock. "Margaret!" he bleated. "You… You're… No, you can't walk! You can't talk! You're _old!_ You're supposed to be…"

"Decrepit? No, I've been recovering, you horrible man. But I hid the fact from you; only Shasta and I knew. Now what are you doing? Is that the stuff you used on me? Oh no, you mustn't use it on anyone else! Don't you dare!"

The madness gleamed in his eyes and he threw the syringe from his hand. "There are too many of you. I need a bucket!" He wheeled and headed for the laboratory shelves.

"Will this do?" called Jim. From under the surgical table he grabbed a ceramic-clad metal pan and skimmed it through the air.

_Clang!_ The item — thankfully empty — rebounded off the professor's head. He reeled, his balance abandoning him, as the bedpan landed with a splatter in the huge culture dish behind him. And as he battled to stay upright, his foot came down on the little wind-up device Artie had tossed into the room earlier to distract Bergman.

His foot came down, then flew right back up again. His arms windmilling, the professor let out an almighty shriek as he tumbled backwards.

_Splash!_

Jim and Artie rushed to the man, Shasta a step behind them. From the doorway Margaret Bergman cried out, "No, don't touch him! Don't get any of that insidious stuff on you!" Recognizing the wisdom of her words, the agents wrenched to a halt, Artie grabbing Shasta to keep her from getting any closer as well.

And as they all watched, Bergman… changed. In a matter of less than a minute, his skin mottled and wrinkled, his hair thinned and turned gray, his entire figure shrank and wizened into the body of an old man of eighty. He stirred and in horror lifted his withered hands before his rheumy eyes. "No," he croaked. "No! _No!"_

Shasta stared down at the incredible sight before burying her face in Artie's chest. As for Mrs Bergman, she took up the lamp from the desk the better to gaze down upon her husband, then gave a grim nod. "Hoist by his own petard," she proclaimed, "and serves him right! Now we'll see how much _he_ likes this taste of his own medicine!"

**End of Act Four  
**_tag to follow_


	14. Tag

**Tag**

"_Sacré bleu, madame!"_ exclaimed the man in the hospital bed. "Then you are neither elderly nor infirm?"

"No," said Margaret Bergman. "I've recovered the ability to walk and talk, and who knows? Maybe eventually I'll become young again. Or young_er_, at least."

"And that skunk kept you around so he could bleed your money from you!" Shasta scowled fiercely.

"That he did. He moved us here where no one would know us so he could pass me off as his mother." Margaret took Shasta's hand. "I wanted to tell you the truth, but he threatened me. He… well, he kept claiming he had an antidote, that he could restore me. But he said if I let anyone know what he'd done, he'd destroy the antidote, leaving me old and withered forever. Only…" Now she glanced at the two federal agents. "You didn't find anything of an antidote in that lab of his, did you?"

Jim shook his head. "No, ma'am. I'm sorry, but we didn't."

"Nothing in his notes indicates there ever was such a thing either," Artie added.

Mrs Bergman gave a long sigh, then nodded in resignation. "I should have known he was lying about that as well."

Jim and Artie laid down the dozens of notebooks they were carrying. "Now that the trial is over and the professor has been convicted on all charges…" Jim began.

"…the prosecuting attorney says he no longer needs your notes as evidence, _M'sieur_ Levesque," Artie finished. "So here they are."

Levesque's eyes lit up. "Ah, _mes cahiers!_ How sorely I have missed them! But, regard, Shasta, with the rest of my notes available, we may now complete the paper for the conference!"

"Conference?"

"_Oui, M'sieur_ West," said the Frenchman. "I have received a telegram, you see, stating that, as _M'sieur le professeur_ Bergman's, er… activities have led the committee to rescind his invitation, they wish instead for the true researcher to present his own paper at the conference."

"And that's Marcel!" Shasta beamed, laying her hand over his.

The agents exchanged a glance. "Ah…" said Artie. "But the conference is next month, isn't it? Do you think you'll be well enough to make such a long trip by then?"

"Much less stand up and deliver a speech," added Jim.

Marcel slid his hand out from under Shasta's in order to clasp hers gently as he smiled up at her. "This delightful creature has already laid those very objections before me, _messieurs_, and we have decided that, should _M'sieur le docteur_ Peters deny me permission to make the trip, she shall go in my place to make the presentation."

"And even if he _is_ well enough to travel," Shasta added, "he shouldn't overtax his throat that way, so I'll be the one reading the paper no matter what. Only…" and she leaned closer to him, "…I'll really need to practice a lot to make sure I can pronounce all those long scientific words!" She grinned, and Marcel laughed with her.

"Dr Peters," said Mrs Bergman. "He's the same doctor into whose care the judge placed my husband, isn't he?"

"Yes," said Jim. "Dr Peters will be studying the effects of the bacterium upon the professor."

"And remember," Artie added, "the judge provided that, should a miracle occur — and he looked straight at you, ma'am, when he said that — should a miracle occur and the professor begin to revert to his former abilities as you did, then Bergman will be sent to the state prison, there to finish out the remainder of his sentence."

"Hmph. I suppose I should hope he does start to get better then, if only for him to wind up where he really belongs!"

"Ah, but consider as well, _madame_," put in Levesque, "that once I am recovered, I shall be working with _M'sieur le docteur_ Peters studying _B geriatricus_. I shall do my utmost to find a cure, not for your husband's sake, but for _yours_."

Margaret's face softened into a smile. "That's very kind of you, _m'sieur_." She reached over and took Levesque's other hand.

"Well," said Artie, "if you'll excuse us, we'll be on our way."

"Now that the case is complete, we have a new assignment awaiting us," Jim explained.

Margaret's eyebrows arched. "So soon? What a pity. Bradley told me he was making a special dinner tonight in your honor."

"Ah…" said Artie and glanced at Jim.

"Beef stroganoff," Shasta put in. "It's one of his specialties."

Artie whimpered and shot another look at his partner, but Jim shook his head. "Um… I'm sorry, ladies," Artie said, sounding heart-wrenchingly regretful. "Perhaps the next time we're in town?" And again he looked at Jim.

Jim gave another shake of his head, but this time as commentary on Artie's woeful glances. "Good day, ladies, _m'sieur_," he said and took his leave.

Artie mumbled a farewell and hurried after his partner. "Now, c'mon, Jim," he murmured urgently. "Beef stroganoff! And it's a specialty! How long can it take just to stay for dinner?"

"Sorry, Artie, but Col Richmond said we needed to be there yesterday to take over this case." He paused, then added, "And by 'there,' he meant New Orleans."

"New… New Orleans!" Artie's whole being perked up. "Well, _New Orleans!_ By all means, let's be on our way!" Looking far jauntier than he had mere moments before, Artie set off down the hall towards the stairs.

"Ah… Artie?" came a soft voice behind the men. Both agents turned to see Shasta slipping out of Marcel's hospital room. She smiled at Jim. "Do you mind if I borrow him for a minute or two?"

Jim acquiesced. "As long as it's not much longer than that. We'll need to stop by the house to pack our bags, but our train is already building up steam. We have to go."

She nodded and took Jim's hand. "Thank you," she said. "Thank you for everything." She stretched up and gave Jim a peck on the cheek.

"Good-bye, Shasta," Jim returned. To Artie he said, "I'll be waiting with the horses."

"Right, Jim." They both watched James West set off down the stairs, then Artie turned back to face the girl.

_Whap!_

Stunned, Artie threw a hand over the cheek she'd just slapped. "What was that for!" he exclaimed.

"I found out what _aloha_ means!" she retorted, fire in her eyes.

"And you slapped me because the last time I said 'Good-bye' to you, I said it in a different language?"

"It doesn't just mean 'Good-bye'!"

"All right, it means 'Hello' as well," he allowed.

"And it's not that either, Artemus Gordon!" fumed Shasta. "It's the other meaning! You had the gall when you thought you'd never see me again to tell me you loved me!"

He stood there blinking, trying to process this. "Ah…" he said at last.

"Men!" she growled. "You think telling a girl 'I love you' is somehow going to take the sting out of also telling her 'Good-bye.' But you're not thinking! The 'I love you' part is like a honeybee!"

"Ah… Sorry? A honeybee?"

"Yes!" And then she rolled her eyes, realizing she was going to have to spell it out. "Honeybees — they make honey, right? So that's the sweet part. But every honeybee carries its own sting with it. And that's just what happens when someone tells you he loves you as part of telling you good-bye forever. You see? Because now you know that somewhere out there — somewhere far away from you — there's someone who claims he loves you." A glimmer of tears lit her eyes. "He loves you, but he didn't stay around to prove it."

Artie the word-master, the silver-tongued orator, found himself at a complete loss. "I…" he managed to stammer out at last.

"That had better not finish with 'love you,' " she warned.

"No, no, I… I was going to say I'm sorry. I never thought of it that way."

The firm set of her lips softened a bit. "Well, now you have. So now you'll know better."

"Yes, ma'am," he responded, endeavoring to look as contrite as humanly possible.

Her face softened still more. "Well…" She reached up and touched his abused cheek tenderly, then gently kissed the spot. "I suppose I'm sorry for slapping you," she said. "And I do appreciate all that you and Jim did this time around, especially uncovering what a heel that Prof Bergman was." She dimpled. "Which will make life so much better for me, Marcel, and Mrs B… that is, for Margaret."

"Well, good!" said Artie. He took her hand in his own and pressed a kiss to her cheek. "Good-bye then, Shasta. It's been nice seeing you again."

"It was nice to see you again too, Artie, you and Jim. Oh, and Marcel's been teaching me some French. He said I should tell you '_Adieu_.' Is that right?"

"It certainly is. _Adieu_, Shasta." He bobbed his head in farewell.

She started back up the hall to the hospital room, then turned back. An unreadable light in her eyes, she added, "_Je t'aime_," and walked away.

…

Artie had a strange look on his face as he stepped out into the sunshine and crossed the porch to where Jim was checking the tack on his horse. "Ready?" Jim said, then frowned. "Ah, Artie, don't tell me Miss Shasta gave you another slap!"

"Hmm? What?"

"Your cheek. You look like someone slapped you. Did Shasta do that?"

Artie touched his cheek again, then put on a big smile. "Oh, c'mon, Jim! Do you really think I'd let a girl who slapped me once ever fetch me another lick like that again?"

Jim gave a small smile and an even smaller shrug. "If you say so, buddy." He mounted up and set off up the street.

Artie followed more slowly, his mind on the girl upstairs, as the realization sank in on him that not only had he failed to duck the slap on his face just now, but with her final words, she had in effect slapped him yet again.

And she was right, he decided. It did sting.

Oh yes, it did.

**FIN**


End file.
